


Those Who Wander

by Gemma_Inkyboots, raisedbymoogles



Series: Renewed [1]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Afterlife, Alien Holidays, Communicating with the Dead, Cultural exchange, F/M, Festival, Gen, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Science, Sparkeaters, boojy boojy, don't fuck with squishies, drunken seekers, hot rod has two daddies, optimus prime is a giant dorkasaurus, prowl explains the afterlife, sideswipe is not funny, sideswipe knock it off, sideswipe thinks he's funny, trust issues in an established relationship, wandering sparks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 11:59:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3487457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemma_Inkyboots/pseuds/Gemma_Inkyboots, https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisedbymoogles/pseuds/raisedbymoogles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The time for one of Cybertron's most beloved festivals approaches. Spike gets out his video camera. Prowl may be More Than Meets the Eye, to Jazz's great surprise... and Starscream, as per usual, has a Very Bad Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written with my partner, who is not on AO3 but whom you may know as Gemma Inkyboots on FF.net. (EDIT: Successfully dragged her onto AO3! Yay! :DDDD) We had a pretty mental image, we started playing with it... and it spun out into this monster. We now have REAMS of headcanon regarding psychopomps, Primus, wandering sparks and the Cybertronian afterlife.
> 
> (By the way, if certain bits have more U's than they really need - my partner wrote those bits. ;P)

There were some nights it just wasn’t safe to be out on the streets.

Most of them purely because the denizens of the metal planet Cybertron were less than friendly to anyone roaming about in the quiet dark, especially if the wanderers happened to be overcharged or thought to be wealthy. But some nights...

Some nights, the most arrogant Cybertronian would do well to stay safe at home.

A faint mist drifted, coiling around the upper levels, filtering down into the lower levels ghost-soft and confusing sensors. In the clammy haze everything was strange, lights were muffled, sounds playing hide-and-seek - an engine could be on the same street or a bridge away and the most observant mech would find it impossible to tell. Dark shapes slunk through the hidden places of the world, lifting their helms and rising to the surface; those who lived on the outer skin of the world had forgotten, had reduced what they knew to myth and legend. They had forgotten just how dangerous some nights could be.

_Run, little robot, run away home…_

Jazz whistled the tune as he sauntered homeward, conscious of the signals he was sending: _I’m not here to make trouble, but I’m not easy prey either._ A confident walk, a visible sidearm. Spoke volumes on nights like this.

_Nights like this._ There were no other nights like this, if you asked the more superstitiously-inclined. Tonight was the Trek of the Homeless, those cursed sparks who’d been denied entry into the Well of All Sparks. Most of the year they dwelt in the Pit, where there was suffering and darkness and Many Things Bad, but when Cybertron got to a certain point in her orbital cycle the veil grew thin enough that the dead could slip through and walk among the living. There were traditional observances of the Trek in most cities, of course, and a hundred variations on just why the sparks were wandering, but those observances took place in the safety of numbers and well-lit streets. Not in half-abandoned manufacturing districts. Certainly not alone.

Jazz was a confirmed skeptic. He wasn’t even convinced the Well of All Sparks existed. Yet it was amazing what tricks mechs could play on their own minds, and Jazz was wise enough to know he was no exception. So he was relieved to see a familiar frame through the mists ahead.

“Hey! Prowl!”

The winged shape turned, sweeping through the mist and stirring it into curlicues lit with blue. “Jazz. Don’t you know tonight is a bad night to be out alone?”

He waited for Jazz to catch up, standing patiently side-on to the other mech so he could see the rest of the road, sharp optics never quite still and doorwings moving gently with the film in the air. “I’m surprised you’re out. Superstition or no, the weather is appalling.”

Jazz gave him a sheepish grin. “No choice. Work an’ all. But since you bring it up…” Jazz shot him a hopeful look. “Wanna walk together for a bit, if you’re headed my way? I ain’t afraid of no ghosts, but metal-and-spark mechs can get a little crazy sometimes on nights like this. Safety in numbers.”

“Mmm.” Something in Prowl’s optics softened. “Very well. Which way are you headed?”

“Thataway.” Jazz nodded further down the street, toward the art district.

Prowl nodded and serenely accompanied Jazz down the road. If he heard the quiet footfall that dogged them, his only reaction was a subtle flicker of doorwing.

_Soft scrape of claws, hissing quietly against the metal of the roadway._

_Run, little robot~_

_Run._

_There is nowhere to run~_

_Not tonight._

_Nowhere is safe tonight._

They walked together in the middle of the street, Prowl’s lights whirling slowly and making the mist flicker strangely around them.

“Better safe than sorry,” he said when Jazz gave him a curious look. “It’s safer not to drive when a fog like this comes down, but that doesn’t mean mechs don’t try, and I don’t want to have to report us as part of a collision tonight.”

“Huh. Good idea.” A silent command, and Jazz’s headlights flicked on. “Weird - wonder how come th’colours light up better.”

“I’m sure there’s some kind of scientific answer, but I doubt you’ll get one tonight.” Prowl glanced out into the mist, optics briefly distant and unseeing. “This is the wrong night for science and rationality.”

Jazz’s chuckle floated around them, warming Prowl’s spark and making the mist seem like a showmech’s special effect rather than something menacing. Prowl, of course, knew better. So did Jazz, really, though his thoughts were more toward ‘it limits visibility’ than ‘demons and monsters.’ They walked side by side, pedes finding the road by familiarity and instinct, until they came to a bridge too narrow for two mechs.

“After you,” Prowl invited, waving Jazz through. Jazz grinned gratefully at him and stepped out onto the bridge. Prowl watched him a moment, then turned and glared narrowly into the mist behind them.

_Something_ unseen and without form suddenly remembered a pressing engagement elsewhere.

Humpf.

Prowl’s doorwings angled sharply up in irritation, then deliberately swung down and relaxed as he headed after Jazz.

*

_Run._

_Run~_

_Run! Run so we can hunt you!_

“It’s strange,” Prowl murmured, “how sounds change in the fog.”

“Yeah. Strange.” Jazz’s hand hovered closer to his sidearm as the noises came again, muffled and eerie. Engines, hoarse and hollow-sounding, booming somewhere up ahead - or was it off to their left?

“Someone clearly needs to visit a medic,” the Praxian continued, walking along as though nothing out of the ordinary were happening at all. “It’s the wrong time of year to make noises like that without people getting the wrong impression.”

As Jazz glanced warily down a shadow in the fog that might have been a side-street, Prowl turned his helm unerringly to the source of the noise and _glared,_ his optics flickering briefly white.

The engine noise picked up, revved in a rather higher pitch than before, and retreated quickly.

Jazz winced. “Yep, there they go. High speeds. Fog. Not a great combination.”

“Indeed,” Prowl answered, unperturbed.

They walked on. Jazz instituted a word game, which Prowl affably played along with until they reached the door to Jazz’s studio and Jazz had to reluctantly pause to get his keycard out.

“You’re spending the night here?” Prowl asked, glancing up at the forbidding building. “Will you be all right?”

“I got a foldout berth up there,” Jazz grinned, “I’ll be fine. ...say, you wanna come up for some energon? I got that new Moonglow record…”

Prowl smiled quietly. “Thank you for the invitation, but I have a few things to do before I turn in. Perhaps some other time.”

Jazz frowned. “You workin’? In this weather?”

“Duty knows no weather,” he was told gravely, and Jazz splerked in response. “Someone has to keep people heading in the right direction, especially tonight.”

“Heh, yeah. I guess so.” Jazz waved as Prowl stepped back from his door, blue visor glowing warmly. “Take care out there, all right Prowler? Stay safe.”

“I will; and you too, thank you, Jazz. Recharge well,” Prowl added, with another slightly dubious glance up at the studio building. Jazz grinned, waved again and let the door slide shut; Prowl stood for a moment, thoughtful in the mist, before turning to face away from the building into the night. 

“If anything happens in this building tonight,” he said calmly, addressing the empty air as his optics paled gently to white and an intangible field of power expanded around his compact frame. “To any of its occupants, the instigators will answer to _me.”_

Up in his studio, the only unusual sounds Jazz heard for the rest of the night were those deliberately recorded on his music files.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Trek of the Homeless, and a very, very old danger rears its ugly head.

For all he had no official title, Spike had been the Autobots’ ambassador and cultural attache since he was fifteen. So it was to him Optimus Prime came on a mission of great personal importance.

“We’re approaching a holiday of great cultural import,” he told his young friend, and Spike’s eyes lit up - the young human was always thrilled to learn more about the Autobots’ culture. “In approximately two Earth weeks, we will observe the Trek of the Homeless, followed by the Hour of the Well and finally the Trek of the Awoken. I want you to document our observances and share them with Earth.”

Spike patted Optimus’s hand, quietly honored. “You can count on me, big guy.” Optimus’s optics crinkled. “What sorts of things can I expect to see?”

“That is still nebulous,” Optimus admitted. “You know that the Autobots come from many city-states, and traditions differ in each one. As their Prime, I must find a way to honor all of those traditions and keep them in balance.” Spike nodded thoughtfully, and Optimus was encouraged to continue. “At their core, the Treks and the Hour are ways for us to honor and remember our dead. This orn’s observance will be both solemn and joyful, or so I hope. Some of the Autobots will take vows of silence, or observe vigils; others will dance, sing, or tell stories.”

“Sounds similar to some of Earth’s traditions,” Spike observed. “Ever hear of Dia de los Muertos?”

Optimus’s optics crinkled again. “Indeed I have. It is my hope that such similarities will serve as a bridge between your people and mine. I want them to see us mourning and celebrating, and realize that we are not so different from them.”

“It’d be a nice change. Most of the time it’s you guys making the effort to fit in with us!” Spike paused at that, an uncomfortable question striking him. “Do you ever feel - I dunno, awkward about that? Or uncomfortable, I guess? I know it’s important to you guys to build bridges and all, but you’re far enough away from home as it is.”

“It is thoughtful of you to worry,” Optimus replied gently, “but in some ways it was easier for us, at first, to be able to celebrate something totally new. Especially being so far away from home.”

Spike nodded, sympathy in his eyes even as he pushed all the cheer he could into his voice. “Well, then we just have to make this holiday a really great one.”

*

Given that not all city-states - or the entirely separate belief systems within some cities - accepted the Prime as a religious leader as well as a civilian one, it was mainly the respect the Autobots held him in that had Optimus heading the discussion of what part of which celebration to fit in where. Truth be told, Beachcomber had the most experience of more than one city’s celebrations, and he wasn’t entirely comfortable with that level of responsibility.

Besides, when it came to the more rambunctious parts, Jazz was the better party planner.

“No, no, no,” Sideswipe was insisting. “The Trek of the Homeless is the _scary_ part, the whole cursed-out-of-the-Well thing, and that just doesn’t work away from Cybertron. There’s no wandering sparks on Earth, nobody’s died here.”

A rather pronounced silence fell at that, and the frontliner realised just a tad too late he’d managed to stick his pede very firmly in his mouth in his enthusiasm.

“Perhaps that’s what we should honour, then,” Prowl said quietly from the side of the room. “Everyone here has lost friends and loved ones. In Praxus it was that sparks who had become lost on the way to the Well were trying to make their way there. It was customary to paint or enamel the names of those sparks who had passed to the Well onto the frame - some districts held processions to their local temples to pass vigils there, to make sure their loved ones’ sparks had someone appealing to Primus for them. And some tried to commune with the Well, if they were of a more spiritual bent.”

“I don’t think I’ve got enough space for everyone on my frame,” Bluestreak whispered, and Sunstreaker wordlessly reached around to tug the smaller mech in close. 

“Doesn’t matter. We can make up designs for anyone who wants to. Mirage’s good with calligraphy.” The short, blunt determination in Sunstreaker’s words, and the relief in Bluestreak’s smile - as well as a pang in his spark at wearing names he’d held close to his spark for long, long vorn - struck a chord with Optimus, and it seemed he wasn’t the only one.

“Polyhex was more with the music an’ celebratin’ on the Trek of the Awoken,” Jazz offered, “not so much on the Trek of the Homeless, but maybe we could do a mirror kinda thing. Like, Iacon had a few o’ those solemn hymns, right Beachy? We could play some, or sing some an’ do a painted-up procession, those as wanted could sit vigil, or talk, or maybe a few other things dependin’ on where you’re from - then for the Awoken, we could have a whole noisy party, with dancing and an offering dais and all.”

Optimus nodded thoughtfully. “We should have a dedicated vigil space at the terminus of the parade,” he suggested. “Set apart from the rest, but not cut off completely. Silence becomes oppressive on such nights,” he added in a lower tone, and Prowl glanced at him carefully but said nothing.

“Screens,” Bumblebee put in. “Remember the rice-paper screens we saw in Japan? Something like that - lightweight and translucent, but still making a visible barrier.”

Grapple immediately started scribbling on a datapad. “If we make it modular-”

“I will leave it to you,” Optimus told him, and Grapple glowed.

“We’ll need a parade route,” Ironhide put in, frowning thoughtfully, “and guards along the route.” At Optimus’s worried look, he added, “I know you don’t want anyone to be excluded, but even on the Trek nights we can’t let our guard down. Not everyone is observant, so I’ll find some volunteers.”

It was a sobering reminder. No one wanted to think that Megatron would launch an assault on the Trek nights - after all, the Decepticons were Cybertronians too - but he’d shown little respect for liturgical events in the past. Unfortunately, Ironhide was right: they could never let themselves forget they were at war. Even to honor their dead.

“The Towers also held processions,” Mirage said softly, and more than one mech startled at his voice - he’d been even more withdrawn than usual, and Hound had sat very close beside him as the discussion went on without comment. “There were different roles that were observed, with differing paints and costumes.”

Beachcomber was nodding, and Jazz looked intrigued; “Never saw one myself,” he commented, studiedly neutral, “but I heard they were really somethin’. Anythin’ basic-level you can tell us?”

Someone started a resentful little mutter at the back of the room about stuck-up Towers mechs and their secrets; Trailbreaker reached over and bounced the heel of his hand off the top of their helm without looking over, and the mutter was abruptly cut off.

“The procession was led by the higher-ranking members of the House, but the Psychopomp had the most central role. They led the group who represented the Homeless sparks - how many and the aspects they represented varied, sometimes widely, but usually there were the Lost, the Reckless and the Penitent. ...then sometimes they had a sparkeater follow the group.”

A shudder followed Mirage’s words. A cornucopia of different traditions the Autobots may have been, but there wasn’t one among them who didn’t feel a chill at the words “sparkeater.”

“Perhaps,” Optimus suggested slowly, “we should leave that part out.”

Mirage nodded. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable with the humans seeing one of us acting the part of a monster. This event is partially for their benefit. I am not opposed to the idea,” he added as a few of the more human-friendly ‘Bots stirred. “I understand Optimus Prime’s reasoning, and our allies among the humans have earned this measure of trust. Besides,” he added, and even those who knew him best would have been hard-pressed to say if that was a smile dancing at the corner of his mouth, “I think it’s high time some secrets were brought out into the light.”

Optimus smiled, nodding to him with quiet pride. “Well said, Mirage.” He glanced around. “Well, then. I’ll be needing a some volunteers for the parade, it seems. To play the roles of the Homeless.”

“Reckless!” Sideswipe chirped immediately, sticking his hand in the air.

“I’ll be Lost,” Beachcomber said, chuckling at Sideswipe as he spoke.

“Penitent.” Cliffjumper lifted a hand with less enthusiasm than Sideswipe. “And I nominate Prowl for Psychopomp.”

Prowl’s wings flickered. “I beg your pardon.”

“I looked up the definition.” Cliffjumper fluttered a hand, and nobody said a word about checking the human word online. Almost everyone else had had to as well, making sure they had the proper translation. Nobody wanted to mishear or misunderstand something and send their traditions - new and old - careening off in the wrong direction. “And it does so fit. Optimus leads the procession as Prime-”

“As Second in Command, logically I would follow him.”

“-Logically, you’re the one that steers us in the right direction, so you should be the Psychopomp.” To Prowl’s slight but visible hesitation, others in the room were beginning to nod, and Jazz was lighting up with pride at his partner’s hard work and care being acknowledged.

“Cliffjumper makes an excellent point,” Optimus said gently.

Prowl hesitated a moment longer, then met Bluestreak’s gaze - the younger mech gave him a hopeful look and wiggled a little in his seat, and Prowl gave in with as much grace as he could muster. “...very well. And I appreciate not being volunteered as a potential sparkeater.”

Sideswipe snorted with mirth. “Nah - if we were gonna do that, we’d volunteer Jazz!”

Jazz splorfled. “Just one little nibble, Sides,” he pleaded in a comical falsetto. “I’m so~ very~ hungry~” He wiggled his fingers against Sideswipe’s arm.

“Augh! You’re freaking me out!” Sideswipe twitched away, flailing at him like a little sparkling, and Jazz leaned back and laughed. Prowl shook his head at them both - oh, his family.

“Jazz, no nibbling anybody,” Optimus mock-commanded, and Jazz looked about to say something off-color before Optimus determinedly forged ahead so he couldn’t. “Mirage, are you willing to help with the paint-apps?”

“Yes, but I doubt I can do them all myself. I’m not familiar with the styles of most other city-states,” Mirage admitted.

Still visibly amused, Jazz raised two fingers. “I can do Polyhex and Uraya styles. Kaon in a pinch.”

“Praxian,” Prowl murmured, trying not to glance at Bluestreak again and make him feel pressured to participate - but he did want Praxus represented somehow.

“Simfur,” Ironhide announced, and wide optics turned his way. “What? Guns ain’t my only talent, mechs.”

“Kaon definitely, Sonic Canyons and Tarnish at a stretch,” Sunstreaker muttered, and batted away Sideswipe’s insistent elbowing. “Knock it off!”

“Excellent.” Mirage nodded, his faint smile reappearing. “And I do know something of Kalis and Altihex’s styles, so we should have most of the city-states covered, barring regional variations.”

“And that the mechs in question will be able to guide the artists on,” Optimus concluded with a smile. “Are you all happy to volunteer your time and effort-?”

“More than, Prime,” Ironhide said for them all, and Jazz bounced in his seat.

“This is gonna be great,” he said happily, and watched in satisfaction as Bluestreak wiggled a little, then clearly made up his mind to comm Prowl about getting painted up.

*

As it happened, the rest of Earth was wildly curious about Autobot ceremonies and customs. Optimus delicately seeded little mentions of the upcoming date here and there in various chats with politicians and leaders of all stripes, including the headmistress of the local primary schools the Autobots visited, and it prompted a wave of cross-cultural events - as well as a reactionary surge of unpleasantness that led to Optimus needing some serious hugs when he heard about it, as well as Bumblebee showing him some of the kids’ drawings they had sent in.

“When the ceremonies are over and things have settled down,” Optimus murmured, “I’d like to visit them. Just to say thank you.”

Bumblebee smiled faintly. “I think they’d like that. I’ll talk to the principal.” He gently tugged one of the pictures out of the pile - a postage-stamp-sized drawing of a home shrine with two pictures on it, a pair of smiling humans. “As hard as it is to hear,” he said, tracing a fingertip over the drawing, “even human children are no strangers to loss.” He deftly turned the paper over.

_My parents died when I was eight and my little brother was three,_ was written in a careful hand. _This is how we honor their memory._

The word ‘honor’ had been scribbled out and then rewritten. Optimus imagined the young human struggling with the word, trying to make it encompass his feelings about the loss of the two people who should have been the foundation of his world. He sighed, optics shuttering, feeling Bumblebee’s helm rest against his shoulder. “Are you thinking of doing the procession?” he asked.

Bumblebee hummed thoughtfully. “I… was actually thinking I’d do a silent vigil, and stand guard.”

Optimus lifted his helm. “Are you sure?”

Bumblebee offered him a careful smile. “There’s… things I haven’t let myself grieve properly for. I’ve already talked to Spike about it.” He reached down to Optimus’s hand, squeezed it. “I’ll be cheering you on from the sidelines, big guy. Don’t worry about me.”

“Impossible,” Optimus said softly, and squeezed back.

*

The orn of the observations came closer, and with preparations for the Trek of the Homeless well underway, the Autobots began work on the Trek of the Awoken. The decisions may have been made at the same time, but most Autobots believed the Homeless’ prep work to have come first because of the timing; Grapple knew better, and worked hard to make sure all the necessary structural work was completed well in advance with the aid of Hoist and a meticulously planned out timetable.

Sideswipe was in his element, foregoing his usual half-play attempts at energon moonshine to stretch his growing talents and attempt long-lost recipes for festival brews; Jazz holed himself up for long stretches between mission work and party planning to create piles of spiral galaxy goodies, the secret of which he teasingly refused to give out to anyone.

“Sorry Baby Blue,” he grinned. “Not even for those big sad optics.”

“Awwww...” Bluestreak sighed, but he gave Jazz a rueful grin back regardless. “I guess I can’t blame you really, but I had to try just because they’re so good and Sideswipe really wants to try making them but they never come out right. He’s made a few weird fun things somehow anyway and he’s gonna make piles of those, somebody told him about sugar skulls and that story about the witch making a gingerbread house and he’s kind of trying to make sheets of crystals for a display for the Trek of the Awoken but he says the end result is going to be a secret. It sounds really good!”

“Sure does,” Jazz laughed, wiping himself down and slinging a companionable arm around Bluestreak’s shoulders, mindful of his doors. “Tell you what - how about we go help Grapple out and get some sunshine? I’m gonna turn into a goodie if I stay indoors one microsecond longer!”

Bluestreak lit up like a small sun, and towed a laughing Jazz outside.

Prowl was outside when Jazz and Bluestreak got there, consulting with Grapple - rather, letting Grapple consult with him about the state of the building site. He glanced up as Jazz and Bluestreak made their way over to him, a faint smile showing in his optics.

“-and if we’re building the guard towers to resemble the Pillars of the Thirteen, we’ll need to get our hands on - Jazz?” Grapple blurted, glancing up. “Bluestreak?”

Jazz struck a pose. “I get that a lot.” Bluestreak chortled and poked him in a seam to make him squeak as Prowl shook his head fondly.

“What are you doing out here? Finished filling every room in the Ark with goodies?” Grapple asked.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Jazz wiggled his fingers. “Blue and I came out to see if you needed any help. Two ‘Bots, willing an’ able!” He posed again, fists on hips like a comic book superhero, and this time Bluestreak copied him. Well, tried to, through his giggles.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t order a pair of clowns,” Grapple pointed out dryly, and Jazz pouted goodnaturedly. “I could use some extra hands, however, if you’re willing. Hoist is over building our dais,” he pointed at the construction site, “and I’m sure he’d be grateful for the help since Brawn had to go on patrol.”

“I’m sure two of us could equal one Brawn,” Jazz grinned, “wouldn’t you say, Blue?”

“Uh-huh.” Blue grinned. “Even we can handle helping build a big flat thing if Hoist directs. You go on ahead, okay? I need to ask Prowl something.”

Jazz, not slow on the uptake, amiably wandered off; Blue glanced at Grapple. “Shall I find something else to do?” Grapple asked.

“No, it’s okay. I should probably hear your opinion too, since it’s your building site and all and you’d know better than me what would work and what wouldn’t.” Bluestreak took an invent, clearly putting the words together in his head before he said them. “Prowl, do you remember the crystal torches?”

Grapple fell still, listening respectfully; Prowl inclined his head. “I do. You want them to be included along the route?”

“I - yeah.” Bluestreak gave him a smile. “I want Praxus to be remembered on the Treks too. It’s just that they have more overt religious meaning than most of - of everything else people are talking about including. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable or feel unwelcome.”

“Everyone has a voice in this, Bluestreak. If Sideswipe can ask to include ‘scary’ aspects to the Trek of the Homeless-” Prowl made the little air-quotes gesture that nigh-all of the Autobots had picked up from Spike, much to Bluestreak’s delight. “-and the fortune-telling part of the Psychopomp role for the Awoken, then we can put mounting the torches to the others for discussion. ...I would be glad to see them in this too.”

That, more than anything, made Bluestreak relax the rest of the way. “Really? Oh, good. I didn’t want to make anyone feel pressured or anything like that, but...this is nice, the whole mixing traditions for everyone, it’s just that not having the lights wouldn’t feel right.”

Prowl was nodding, and Bluestreak gave him a smile that was just a little wobbly with relief. “Now that we have begun the preparations, it seems half the crew are having more ideas they wish to include. I can put it forward on behalf of both of us, if you would like? ...most Autobots are - less religiously-inclined, and I doubt there would be a problem with including them.”

“Thanks, Prowl. I don’t want to be pushy or anything, but if you’d miss them too...”

“I suspect Smokescreen and Skids would also, though they may not say it.” Suiting action to word, Prowl sent out a non-priority ping to the general Autobot frequency.

He received a few pings back almost immediately - a few merely confirmation-of-receipt, but some - Ironhide and Jazz among them - intrigued or approving of the idea. Prowl forwarded those to Bluestreak, just to see him light up in relief and joy. “Thank you, Prowl,” he said, reaching out to squeeze his hand.

Prowl patted his hand in return, smiling gently. “Would you like to dedicate them yourself?”

Bluestreak sobered, doors lowering. “If I tried to make enough, they’d cover half the continent. I’ll dedicate one; the others might want to make dedications of their own.”

“I understand.” Prowl nodded, quietly approving. “But I’m sure the others wouldn’t begrudge you more than one.”

“I’ll make another dedication next festival.” Bluestreak smiled bravely. “I’m going to go help Jazz now. Unless you want me to help you haul supplies? That’s an awfully long list - no offense, Grapple, I know you only ask for what you need, but I didn’t realize so much was involved in making a processional ground-”

“I am working from scratch, relatively speaking,” Grapple pointed out.

“I’m getting Trailbreaker and Huffer to make the supply-run with me,” Prowl told Bluestreak, patient as ever. “But thank you. Go help Hoist before Jazz smothers him with enthusiasm.”

*

“Thanks for coming down, Prowl. I know you’re busier than usual and all.”

“It’s no trouble.” Prowl stepped into the lab behind Wheeljack, glancing around with a calmer expression of caution than most tended towards. “What seems to be the problem?”

Perceptor glanced up from one of the lab workbenches and lit up as they came over. “Well, Percy’s really the one to explain the details,” Wheeljack shrugged lightly, “but the nuts and bolts are that we can’t grow the crystals for the torches you wanted without a couple’a - side effects, I guess.”

“Side effects?” Prowl paused, very briefly, but Perceptor was already hurrying to clarify the explanation before anyone started diving for cover.

“Why yes - nothing harmful, far from it in fact, but the trouble is that manufacturing the compounds required to create Praxian crystal torches have rather different reactions to Earth’s atmosphere than Cybertron’s.”

“Do you mean they won’t give out light?” Prowl asked, disappointment creeping into his tone despite his businesslike manner. Bluestreak would be so upset...

“No, no, not at all,” Perceptor waved his hands quickly as if to wave the suggestion away, then gestured for Prowl to follow as he and Wheeljack rounded the end of the bench. “In fact they give off a perfect bright white light - the trouble is that they also give out a sort of artificial fog. It is colourless and odourless, without the terrible effects on organics as carbon monoxide - our analysis shows it is in fact sublimating carbon _di_ oxide, which while being potentially harmful for our human friends to handle due to the extreme cold-”

“-a quick check on the internet makes it look like they know about this stuff already,” Wheeljack broke in cheerfully. “Ever hear of dry ice?”

Prowl reset his optics quickly. “Dry ice - yes, as a matter of fact. Sideswipe ordered it by the barrel for Halloween last year...”

And it led to the Ark being half-full of drifting, curling fog, conjuring shadows and spirits in even the most sensible Autobot’s processor. On the orn of the wandering sparks, like that orn so long ago where he and Jazz had walked through the veiling mist...it was as though Primus was welcoming the idea of joining ceremonies with their new home.

Prowl smiled softly. “That sounds perfect.”

Perceptor lit up. “Truly? Do you mean it? I know the torches carry religious significance, I should hate to get it wrong…”

“Speaking as someone who is familiar with the religious significance in question,” Prowl assured him, “I think it’s very appropriate. Bluestreak and Sideswipe will both, I expect, be delighted.”

Perceptor’s smile said he was fairly delighted himself. Wheeljack chuckled and patted his arm. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ve got to get working on those guard towers or Grapple will fuss.”

“He is rather working himself into a lather, isn’t he?” Perceptor commented, nose already in chemical equations.

“Ah, he’s in his element. I haven’t seen him this animated since Cybertron.” Wheeljack waved Prowl off ahead of him. “You know, I barely even noticed stuff like this on Cybertron. Festivals just meant the lab was quieter. Now I can’t wait to see the processional.”

“You’re not participating?” Prowl asked politely.

Wheeljack shrugged. “Might offer a prayer. I’m sure Primus would be happy to hear from me when I’m _not_ panicking.”

Prowl smiled, soft and hidden. “Yes, I imagine so.”

*

The artists of the Ark had taken over an empty storage room - or, rather, they had found a half-derelict storage room, hauled out the rubble, shored it up, and installed lights, storage space and enough work stations for all of them to use comfortably. If they were going to do this, Mirage had declared, they were going to do it _right._

The others had been all too keen to follow his lead.

“All right, all right, who ordered a head?” Ratchet marched into the room at the head of a short procession of minibots, all carrying spare parts of plating and mock-ups of different helm models. “Hey, this is looking pretty good!”

“No need to sound so surprised,” Mirage said just a little smugly, and chuckled when Ironhide huffed his vents loudly. “And thank you again for all this. Practise makes perfect, after all.”

“An’ we’re all outta practise,” Ironhide added, ambling over to poke at the parts Huffer was carrying. 

“Hey!” the minibot whined. “Aren’t you gonna let us put these down first? My arms are killing me!”

“Ah, pipe down, Huffer. If you’re hurting that much, I’ll give you a check-up back in the medbay - when you’re off-duty.”

“Oh, don’t bother, it doesn’t hurt when I’m in the medbay. Just starts up again after I leave.” Huffer followed Ironhide’s beckon and ambled over with his armload of spare parts. “This is kinda creepy, I gotta say,” he pointed out as Ironhide divested him of his burden. “Painting on mockups.”

“What’s so creepy about it?” Ironhide laughed. “It’s not like they’re leftover bits of deactivated people.”

“Ironhiiiiide, that’s gross.”

Ironhide cackled, wiggling his fingers. “At night, they come alive, seeking vengeance!” he intoned. Hupper promptly dropped the mockup head he was holding on Ironhide’s pede. “Owch! Hey!”

“You were asking for that, I’m afraid,” Mirage chuckled. “Well, gentlemechs, let’s get painting. And someone tell Jazz and Prowl they’re missing the practice party.”

“Are we late, are we late?” Jazz bounced in only moments later, Prowl following more sedately behind. “Awesome, the models are here!”

“Fresh outta the medbay,” Ratchet grinned. “Knock yourselves out, kiddies, I’ve got work to do. Thanks for the assist, ‘Bots.”

“No problem, Ratch, happy to do it.” Brawn waved a casual hand to the others, then wrapped his arm around Huffer’s shoulders and dragged him, still complaining, out of the room after the departing medic.

Mirage watched them go, a faint smile lingering, then clapped his hands lightly together. “All right, gentlemechs, let’s get to work.”

*

After Mirage and Sunstreaker had declared themselves satisfied - or at least after Sunstreaker had consented to stop for the day so he could mull the results over and no doubt be right back here in between duty shifts - Jazz leaned back in his scavenged swivel chair and looked up at Prowl. “So, wanna hand getting your costume all done up on the big day? Promise not to muss your paint~”

That earned him a faint lipquirk, but Prowl’s attention remained primarily focussed on the brushes he was cleaning instead. “Thank you, but I can manage. I have played this role before, and traditionally it’s bad luck to have too many people around the Psychopomp role before the procession.”

“....huh. Never would’ve figured you’d mind that.” Jazz shifted in his seat, his interest well and truly piqued. “I know you’re not much of one to care about superstitions and luck normally...”

“Well,” Prowl murmured. “This is hardly a normal day. And besides, Bluestreak will need your support more than I.”

A ghost of a smile. “Yeah, guess so. I know I don’t gotta tell you this, but I’m really proud of him gettin’ involved with the Treks like he has.”

Prowl’s optics went soft and slightly misty. “I’m proud of him too. He’s taken on a lot of responsibility. Maybe he can be Psychopomp next cycle,” he added, a bit of a teasing glint to his optic.

Jazz laughed. “Awww, our lil baby-Blue all grown up an’ guidin’ lost sparks to their homes. Won’t that be something else.”

Prowl chuckled along, and quietly patted himself on the back for having successfully distracted Jazz.

*

Preparations proceeded apace; the guard towers went up; the painters continued to practice. Spike found a video camera from somewhere and (after said camera was interrogated by Red Alert) filmed bits of the prep work. “Hey, Percy, Bluestreak,” he called, ambling outside to where the two of them were conferring. “Can I film you guys?”

“Of course! I don’t mind at all, though it’s not very interesting.” Bluestreak beamed at him. “We’re testing the crystal torch prototype. There’s going to be thirteen of these along the processional route.”

Spike trained his camera on the torch - from his perspective, it was a pillar topped by a glowing crystal, with a faint mist rising from it into the afternoon sun. “It’s glowing,” he marveled. “What’s that gas?”

“It’s sublimating carbon dioxide - similar to the substance known colloquially on this planet as dry ice.” Perceptor took over explaining, leaving Bluestreak to fiddle with the stand. “The Praxian crystals wouldn’t sublimate in Cybertron’s atmosphere, but the formation of the crystals here on Earth results in this effect - one that I believe is considered quite, ah, ‘spooky’ by your species?”

Spike and Bluestreak exchanged grins. “Yeah, something like that,” Spike admitted. “Do these torches have any special significance?”

Perceptor fielded the question to Bluestreak with a glance. “Well, the Treks of the Homeless and Awoken were a more somber occasion in Praxus than in other city-states. There were torches like these all over the city, especially along the processional route. They were meant to attract wandering sparks and keep them safe until the psychopomp got there to lead them home.”

Spike looked intrigued. “I’ve heard the word psychopomp before, but nobody’s said what it means.”

Blue grinned. “Umm, I think you’ve got a similar figure in your mythology, actually. The Grim Reaper?” Spike’s eyes widened. “The psychopomp is an agent of Primus who basically does the same thing. He doesn’t actually kill anybody, but he’s present when someone passes, so he’s kind of been depicted as this scary figure. Though I think he’s even more scary to things like sparkeaters or harmful spirits or creatures of the Depths.”

Spike nodded thoughtfully. “Huh. Thanks, Blue, that’s really good info.” Bluestreak preened. “Hey, isn’t Prowl playing the psychopomp for your procession?”

Bluestreak fluttered with pride. “He sure is!”

“Wow. So, uh, is this sparkeater thing more or less what it sounds like?”

That earned him an emphatic nod from Bluestreak, Perceptor smiling to himself and going back to his work with the torch. “Sparkeaters are the scariest thing! If one of them gets you, your spark never gets back to the Well, _ever._ You just - get digested and break down and poof! No more you.” The gunner’s hands fluttered up into the air, scattering an imaginary spark to the winds. “If your spark gets lost on the way, that’s one thing - there’s psychopomps and Primus and people on festivals looking out for you, you know, but if you get eaten by a sparkeater or grabbed by something in the Depths, that’s _it._ Sideswipe knows some really scary stories, if you wanna hear them, they did a lot of scary stuff in Kaon and the Sonic Canyons for the Trek of the Homeless from what he says...”

Spike nodded along at the appropriate places, eyebrows rising and trying to keep the camera steady as Bluestreak talked. “And the psychopomp’s job is to keep all the wandering sparks safe and get them back to the Well, right?”

“Right!” Bluestreak nodded emphatically. “There’s more than one, obviously, and they all look different depending on where you’re from, like I’d see one as Praxian but, oh, Percy maybe would see the same one as a Crystal City mech or an Iaconian or something, sorry Percy I can’t remember where you said you were built-”

“Neither, actually, but please go on,” Perceptor said with a rather absent-minded smile and a flutter of his free hand.

“-and I don’t think I’d find one scary since they’re like Enforcers, they’re supposed to keep us safe, but I guess if you’d just gone offline you’d be pretty upset and scared and nobody wants to lose a person so anyone left behind who’s sensitive enough to see them would I guess not _want_ to see them either, although I never really got that since a psychopomp’s supposed to keep people safe, it’s not _their_ fault someone’s frame failed or there was an accident. ....I guess it all depends on your point of view. I think it’s great Prowl got to be the psychopomp - he’s the kind of one I’d want looking after my spark.”

Spike gave him a warm smile. “Yeah, I know what you mean. ...just, uh, for my own peace of mind - sparkeaters are just a myth, right? Like vampires and stuff.”

(“Vampires aren’t real?” moaned Powerglide, on monitor duty. “Slaggit, I owe Skydive ten bucks.”)

“...um.” Bluestreak and Perceptor exchanged a paralyzed look that worried Spike. “Well… that is to say,” Perceptor began.

“I’m pretty sure there aren’t any on Earth!” Bluestreak offered brightly.

Spike’s jaw and camcorder hit the ground at approximately the same time.

*

“It’s not funny!” Bluestreak scolded, which did nothing to stem Jazz’s horrified giggles. “I think I scared him and you know how he gets when he’s all protective and worried and _you’re not helping!”_

“I’m sorry,” Jazz howled, “I’m sorry, just gimme a minute!”

Prowl sighed, bent down and lightly tapped Jazz’s helm in reproof. “I’ll talk to Spike before the procession,” he assured Bluestreak. “Just for the love of Primus, _don’t tell Sideswipe._ He really will come up with a sparkeater if he hears about this.”

Bluestreak shook his head emphatically. “Not a word, I promise.”

*

“...and it seems that vampires and other mythological creatures are _not_ real on Earth, which led to Spike believing the same of sparkeaters.”

“Huh,” Beachcomber murmured, tilting his half-full cube and watching the energon swirling. “That had to be one heck of a shock, y’know?”

“Oh, indeed. Both Bluestreak and I had to speak rather quickly to calm him somewhat, and I believe he then went to have words with Optimus.” Both Beachcomber and Perceptor winced at that, Perceptor taking a mouthful of his own cube and shaking his head slightly before going to continue.

“Hey, did I hear you guys right? About Spike and the sparkeater thing?” 

Perceptor tilted his head back, then smiled up at the taller mech. “Oh, Sideswipe! Yes, I’m afraid Bluestreak and I managed to give him rather a nasty shock. It seems that the beings most commonly mentioned in horror stories and movies are not actually real, and he had assumed the same of sparkeaters until we disabused him of the notion...”

“Oh. Riiiight.” Sideswipe’s grin got just a little broader the more elaboration Perceptor gave him, but while Beachcomber looked at him with a tad bit of wariness in his visor, Perceptor chatted away happily without a second thought. “So, ah, he knows now, right? That they are real? ...bet he’s glad he didn’t before going up there that one time, huh.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure! We hardly want to terrify our friends, but it really would have been safer for him to know - oh dear, what a quandary.”

“Quandary. Right. Well, good talking to you, mechs - lots to do, stuff to brew, you know how it is! Later.”

Sideswipe ambled away with a lazy wave, and Perceptor turned to smile at his fellow scientist. “Well, that was rather- ...er. Did I say something wrong?”

Beachcomber just sighed. “No, Perce, but really - I gotta wonder if you just set Spike up for a nasty surprise some night.”


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Trek gets underway, and Starscream loses his drink.

Prowl sat in rare seclusion, preparing himself for his role in the procession. He’d accepted Jazz’s help in washing himself, and his plating still tingled faintly from his partner’s attentions. It made him very aware of himself as he meditated, opening himself for the first time in a long time to the guidance of Primus.

Prowl wouldn’t describe himself as religious. The idea of faith implied a choice in whether or not to believe in something you had no evidence for. Prowl, of all mechs, didn’t have the luxury of that choice. His existence was the evidence; the awareness reaching to brush his spark from _so very far away_ was undeniable.

Slowly, his optics went to full dark, then to light again, only now they were not the blue of an Autobot soldier but a bright, searing white. The white lenses Prowl had asked Ratchet for lay in their box, unused. Tonight he would enter the processional as close to his true self as he could manage.

Prowl rose from his seat, his movements smooth and mindful. Murmuring meditative equations, he draped his robes around himself and clipped them in place - they were a strange mashup of Praxian and Crystal City styles, made of heavy white Earth cloth rather than steelsilk and with the glyphs painted on rather than woven into the mesh, and they whispered strangely around his body as he moved. But they were long enough to brush his pedes as he walked, and draped along his shoulders and arms with suitable drama. Prowl adjusted the outthrust pauldrons, made sure his Autobot symbol was visible, and declared himself satisfied.

The double-ended crystal staff was waiting for him in its stand. It glowed faintly as he picked it up.

None of the equipment was required if one happened to truly be a psychopomp - Prowl had never needed anything but himself and the otherwhen _awareness_ he had been ensparked with, a sense of knowing that enhanced rather than replaced the already-formidable sensory suites Praxians were known for. He knew, like a data point approaching on a conveyor belt of other information, when a frame was due to fail and release the spark of its occupant. He could sense a wandering spark, track it down in the physical world his frame occupied or on the plane of the spark, the road to the Well. He could see and sense more than those ‘bots around him ever knew, and he had sworn to pass quietly through their lives, intangible and invisible, to do his duty.

And then the war came.

No longer a spat between city-states, growing fangs and claws and swallowing so many lives, so many sparks pouring into the Well that it was nigh-impossible to keep up, monsters and demons shaken loose from the deepest layers of Cybertron until the entire world was screaming. Until Primus set loose his servants, a faint brush across their sparks granting them the use of a physical frame all He had strength for, sending them out to safeguard what they could of His children. Not since the horrors of the Quintessons had such a thing come to pass, and it seemed a hopeless task - one by one the psychopomps fell, their increasingly physical forms used as shields or caught in the crossfire on colony worlds or far-flung battlefields as Cybertron slowly but surely fell silent, as Primus’ dreaming voice fell still. As fewer and fewer sparks remained to be guided to the Well.

Now, far away from home and creator, Prowl let the last of the traditional equations sigh from his vocaliser. His hand curled around the staff - too light to use as a weapon, in truth, not enough to hold back a sparkeater or a demon from the Underdark. _Perhaps I should fix that, and change it back before the ceremony’s end._

Prowl raised the staff over his head, optics blazing with white lightning, and power rolled from his spark like a breaking wave. Ancient glyphs, dots, lines and symbols broke through his paint, glowing the same deep blue of the night sky over Cybertron and edged with brilliant white. _Metal, energon, spark - sapience, freedom, love, unity. Creator, hear me - not all of your children are gone. We falter and we fail, but we try. We are still trying._

_Very trying, as Jazz would say._

He wasn’t sure what Primus would say to a psychopomp falling in love with a living spark. Sometimes Prowl rather thought He would find it all too funny.

Light and power marked his paint, lit up from the inside until the sigils that were always there just out of sight shone clear and true once more; the staff in his hand - metal carefully shaped but not really usable as anything but a blunt instrument - very briefly seemed to melt _into_ his plating, taking on the same crisp white of his hands and the molecular makeup of Prowl’s frame, his spark’s life force pouring into the staff that now felt like an extension of himself as the markings spiralled down Prowl’s arm and around the staff. The crystals flared bright as torches, and now Prowl could see them as clearly on the ethereal spectra as the physical.

Prowl smiled faintly and checked his work; deeming himself presentable, the lights dimmed to a faint glow that would show up clear and bright on the nocturnal procession route, the last crackles of energy around his optics drawn tidily back under his plating. This tradition may only be a role in the strictest sense, but let no-one say Prowl never gave less than his best.

*

“Primus, hear us; we are the Homeless. Lead us home - lead us home.”

Painted over in the whorls of Polyhex, the neat lines of glyphs of Iacon, the sacred formulae of Praxus, and a dozen more styles of painted decoration from a dozen more city states, Optimus began the chant in a low voice that reverberated through the ground, making optics flicker and engines hum in response. He stepped off the dais, trusting the misty light of the crystal torch ahead to guide him - and Grapple’s good work to make his path level. Behind him, Ironhide in Simfur star-charts, insisting on his bodyguard role even on this processional night, with guard towers more numerous than the crystal torches. Behind him, Ratchet uncomfortably filled the role that the priest would have had; and behind him, Prowl in the robes and carrying the staff of the psychopomp.

“Lost sparks, to me,” he called, his staff making spirals of light in the air.

Sideswipe was the first to answer, jumping ahead of Beachcomber and Bluestreak, who as the Lost were technically supposed to go first. Bluestreak, his every motion glinting silver with his glyphs, yelped affront and chased after Sideswipe, leaving Beachcomber to laugh and hang back with Sideswipe’s fellow Reckless.

“This procession’s off to a jammin’ start,” he commented.

Jazz laughed and deployed his speakers. “I got your jammin’ right here.”

Music was, of course, traditional for all such Cybertronian celebrations, although “This Is Halloween” was perhaps not what most expected to hear.

Prowl shook his head at their antics, a faint smile quirking his mouth; as Optimus glanced back in no small consternation at the ruckus and the unplanned music, Prowl reached out with his staff and lightly tapped Jazz’s hip. The fog coiled around his partner’s plating like a caress, and did an excellent job of both catching Jazz’s attention and stuttering the music to a halt.

“If you please,” he said gravely, and watched in amused surprise as Jazz’s visor glowed hot, flicking over his paint and white optics.

“Right,” came the reply with a growl of Jazz’s engine behind it, and this time his speakers hummed with mathematical precision, bits and pieces of remembered and half-forgotten music stitched together to harmonise with the call-and-response Optimus led.

“Lost sparks to me,” Prowl called again, and this time his voice sounded like a song.

“Lead us home,” sang Bluestreak, Sideswipe sidling back into place headstrong and not the least bit apologetic, grinning as Beachcomber’s voice joined with the Praxian’s. “Lead us home,” they sang, and Optimus began to walk.

He led the procession with his optics firmly forward, unwavering and sure of the ground under his pedes, and for all that Ironhide had grumbled beforehand and insisted on walking behind as close as a shadow, the mist curling softly from the crystals seemed like no threat whatsoever. Optimus passed the first torch, his pede falling perfectly in line with the sconce that supported it, then fixed his optics firmly on the next. Ratchet, behind him, swept his optics steadily from side to side across the markings painted and engraved in the path, taking his role as the priest stand-in seriously even if the role alone had been the subject of much debate; they all agreed that they needed someone to watch the path, as Optimus was the one to watch the light and lead them, and if anyone kept the path steady beneath them it was Ratchet.

Prowl, meanwhile, moved back and forth, up and down the procession, shepherding the Homeless but never walking ahead of Ratchet’s place in the line. “Primus hears you,” he murmured, touching their shoulders or passing his staff over their heads as he spoke. “There is a home for you. Come and be homeless no more.”

Sideswipe beckoned, and with a fond sigh Prowl allowed the frontliner to pull him into a spin, robes swirling out behind him. “We used to dance in the arenas,” Sideswipe told him. “S’posed to keep the sparkeaters away, but considering half of us were painted up like sparkeaters…”

Prowl smiled, the white shine of his optics lighting the thin swirls of blue and red over Sideswipe’s face. “I know.”

“Heh, I know, but the holovids really didn’t do it justice.” Sideswipe gave him a last grin and let him go, losing himself in the procession and Jazz’s music again.

Prowl set his sadness aside. No, the holovids hadn’t done the gladiators a dram of justice. The dances hadn’t kept the sparkeaters away; the psychopomps had. And the gladiators weren’t the savages the broadcasters had painted them. Prowl lifted his staff again - “There is a home for you,” he said, and found himself looking into Jazz’s visor, seeing his own solid form reflected. Jazz smiled; Prowl had to swallow a sudden swell of emotion again. “Come,” he murmured, “and be homeless no more.”

*

On Cybertron, the Trek of the Homeless had not gone unobserved - there was far less ceremony, certainly, but the thinning of the veil between the living and the dead was observed. Kup leaned back against the wall of their current shelter, stretching out his legs and trying in vain to un-kink his backstrut.

“Hey lad,” he called over. “Bring over a cube each and I’ll tell you about the Trek of the Homeless.”

Over by the doorway Hot Rod huffed. “I _know_ about the Treks, Kup. You’ve told me a million times - besides, Arcee and Springer and Magnus aren’t here yet. We ought to be out helping them.”

“They’ll be here. Elita won’t keep ‘em longer than she needs ‘em.” Kup waved a hand imperiously, grinning to himself at the youngling’s impatience. “And right now we need fuel so we can check ‘em over when they do get here.”

That convinced Hot Rod at last - he came trotting over with a pair of pale energon cubes in his hands, still glancing anxiously back at the doorway as he came. “You’re sure they won’t be late?” he asked, sitting down next to Kup and handing one of them over. “It’s nasty out there. ...and don’t say it’s because it’s the Trek orn.”

“All right, I won’t.” Kup took a long drink of the half-strength cube and pulled a face, but before he could distract the lad with a lead into a story or two the door-pad bleeped - they both had weapons in hand before the code had finished processing, and only relaxed slightly when Arcee bolted into the shelter in front of the bulkier mechs.

“We have to go,” she said rapidly, optics pale but steady. “Elita wants us off the planet as soon as they can launch a raid on Darkmount!”

Hot Rod guiltily put his weapon away, hoping Arcee hadn’t seen it; Kup kept his in his hand, though the other reached out to touch her shoulder. “Off planet? Why? What’s going on?”

“Sparkeater.” Magnus had to bend to enter the shelter; straightening fully, he filled the room. “They found a vault of artisans and labourers in stasis; their chests had been clawed open and their sparks were gone.”

His words were followed by an icy silence; it was Hot Rod who broke it. “If it’s a sparkeater, we can’t leave it to eat Elita-One and them,” he demanded. “We have to stay!”

“We can’t risk you young ones, lad.” Kup nudged him aside. “Elita and her crew can take care of themselves, and they don’t need to be worrying about _our_ sparks. Get your gear, now.”

“But,” Hot Rod protested faintly, but the rest of his small, battered crew - the closest thing to family he had - were packing up and erasing all traces of their presence, and he had no choice but to do the same.

If Ultra Magnus’s team were to leave the planet, there was only one place they could go: to Earth, the war’s second front. Hot Rod tried to be excited at the prospect, but his thoughts kept pulling back to Elita-One’s band, and the stories Kup had told him of sparkeaters and the fate of those who hunted them.

*

This close to Darkmount it was Shockwave’s drones that were the danger, not the mech himself - they patrolled on a regular schedule, but _which_ schedule and route changed on a rota that the guerilla Autobot groups had yet to decipher. Elita-One wasn’t about to risk the sparks she was trying to save, and her network of surveillance and sniper perches guided the youngling fighters and their guardians to a certain point at the side of the Darkmount compound.

“I don’t think we should have to go just because we’re younger,” Hot Rod muttered, for all he followed along behind Springer at a rapid clip. “We can still fight.”

“I don’t like it any more than you do, but are you gonna argue with Elita-One _and_ Magnus?” Springer muttered back, peering around a corner for Magnus to signal it was safe to go on as Roddy caught him up. “I sure don’t want to sit through that.”

Hot Rod valiantly resisted the urge to puff through his vents at the bigger mech, and was rewarded for his self-control when Kup appeared behind them and promptly scolded Springer for not using comms.

Then the explosions started, and Hot Rod had no time to think of anything but running.

There were drones everywhere, stumbling and falling and their control units bursting into smithereens as an unseen sniper coolly took them out, one at a time. Hot Rod caught a flash of dull purple as they raced past a partly-open door - _was that Shockwave?_ \- and then they were through; the control room for the Space Bridge was theirs. How long for was another matter, but all they could do was trust to Elita and her troops to keep Shockwave busy.

“All right,” Magnus said, striding forward to the controls. “Arcee, Hot Rod, I want you watching the door. Springer, cover them. Kup - take out anything unusual.”

The Autobots scattered, and in a few short moments the Space Bridge shuddered and groaned into life.

Arcee caught Hot Rod’s optic. “New planet, huh? Pretty exciting.”

“You know me, I live for excitement.” Hot Rod grinned back, though his optics were on the door as it juddered - opened a crack - and stopped, the enemy on the other side disabled or delayed. “Bring it on, the ‘Cons won’t know what hit ‘em.”

“We’re as likely to encounter Decepticons on the other side of the bridge as this side,” Magnus called over the sounds of battle beyond the door. “I’ll go first to secure our route. Kup, Springer, send Hot Rod and Arcee through after me and then come yourselves.” He cycled hard and stepped forward into the light. “Til all are one.”

He was gone, and Hot Rod found himself ushered through after him at Arcee’s side. “See you on Earth,” he told his old mentor, grinning.

“Get going, young punk,” Kup ordered, and shoved him into dizzying swirls of light.

*

Starscream’s resentment was at a fine simmer tonight, crouched like a malevolent raven on the wall of Earth’s first (and if Starscream had his way, only) space bridge terminal. His assignment here was an exile and a humiliation - Megatron had given him a job that even the dimmest Decepticons could generally be trusted with, even if they took stasis naps on the job.

 _I’ve half a mind to do that myself._ Starscream lifted his energon cube - his only comfort on a long, dark night that would have featured processionals and parties back on Cybertron - to his lips to take a drink.

The space bridge exploded into light and activity, knocking Starscream aft over teakettle, the contents of his cube all over his face, and sending him falling onto the dusty ground below. Leaping to his pedes, he armed his null rays - unauthorized and unscheduled space bridge activity could only mean one thing.

The intruder strode out of the wall of light and Starscream forgot to shoot. “Ultra Magnus?”

The Autobot was a fortress unto himself, and when he turned his optics to Starscream, the Seeker saw him silently calculating all the ways he could neutralize him. Outwardly Starscream made a show of peaceably stepping back and lifting his hands, but he was already flooding the base’s comm with pings of _get your afts out here now._

Two more Autobots, already small but only dwarfed by Magnus’s bulk, touched down on Earth and moved to join him, goggling at Starscream. Belatedly Starscream realized he was still covered in his own fuel and bristled with mingled fury and embarrassment. “What are you looking at?”

As two more Autobots emerged and the space bridge’s curtain of light finally receded, one of the Autobots turned to his commander. “Who’s that, Magnus?”

Magnus’s gaze didn’t waver from the Decepticon in question. “That is Starscream.”

“Wow. Really?” Another faintly disbelieving look. “Huh.”

Even under Ultra Magnus’ (impossible!) gaze, Starscream’s temper surged past its boundaries and he almost lifted off from the force of his shriek. _“How dare-!”_

The smaller Autobot startled, optics wide, but Starscream didn’t get to savour his alarm. “Time to go!” came a crackling voice from behind Magnus, and the whole lot of them transformed. With Magnus at the head of the group. Aimed right at him.

His altmode was large, heavy and surprisingly fast, Starscream thought in a daze from his heap on the ground. There was never another tank around when you needed one.

*

“So - that was Starscream.”

“Indeed.”

“He’s...kinda loud.”

Kup snorted a laugh, surprised into a whole-sparked cackle. “It’s kinda in the name, lad. Didn’t I tell you the story-”

“Whichever it was, you probably did,” Magnus said drily. “For now, we need to contact Optimus Prime’s forces on Earth and brief him on the situation.”

This time, Hot Rod’s only comment was a high-pitched squeak.

*

Halfway to the thirteenth crystal torch, Optimus halted in place.

Predictably, Ironhide halted when he did, too practiced by now at Optimus’s sometimes odd ways. Predictably, Ratchet plowed right into his back, and before he could squawk a curse Bluestreak bumped into him, causing Sideswipe to plow into _him,_ and at that not even the solidly-built Prime could stay standing and fell to the ground, taking those behind him with him. And so the Autobot pileup continued, almost all the way to Prowl, who’d drifted to the rear of the procession as they approached the dais again. “Something wrong, Prime?” he called, as calm as if Prime-instigated botpiles happened every day.

“I apologize, everyone,” Optimus said, as Cliffjumper and Skids helped to haul everyone off each other. “I’ve just been contacted by Ultra Magnus. He’s on his way here and requesting backup - Decepticons in pursuit. We’ll have to finish the procession later.”

“Oh, bullslag,” Sideswipe burst out, but his engine was already cycling up in anticipation. “We gotta fight in our paint?”

“Well, if you wanna ask the ‘Cons to hold off while you scrub up, be my guest,” Cliffjumper snarked, as Prowl struggled free of his robes.

“Front line units, form up,” he ordered. “The rest of you, fall back and prepare to form a defensive line. Prime, did Magnus say what brings him to Earth?”

Optimus shook his head, his uncanny paint shifting in the misty torchlight. “No, but I anticipate nothing good.”

“Then perhaps the best strategy is one of a swift collection and retreat,” Prowl mused, watching Autobots forming up and their paint glimmering through the fog. Optimus tilted his helm, glanced to see what Prowl was looking at, and his optics crinkled at the corners.

“Prowl, that sounds like an excellent idea.”

*

“Don’t these slaggers have better things to do?” Hot Rod yelped, fishtailing across the dusty planet surface and dodging fire from the Seekers overhead. Arcee screeched past him, spinning as she went, and transformed to spray shots across their wings before falling back to her tyres and catching up again.

“Sure they do,” she rapped out. “It’s just that shooting us is more entertaining!”

“Keep going! Reinforcements are on their way!” Despite his words, Magnus felt his internals roil as another engine joined the whine of jets - then a great white shape came barrelling out of the darkness, disjointed patterns glowing over its plating, and dumped what must have been an entire hold full of _something_ that exploded into fog right on top of the Decepticons.

The jets veered in random directions, squawking as fog trailed from their wings; Hot Rod whooped his approval as the big shuttle turned on his wing. “Follow me!” he bellowed as he passed over their heads. “And don’t be alarmed!”

“Alarmed?” Hot Rod repeated, bouncing on his tires over the uneven ground. “By what?”

He stuck close to Magnus, though, and soon saw ‘by what’: Autobots, but Autobots like he’d never seen before - marked over in dizzying variety, somehow both warlike and otherworldly, they charged in to cover Magnus’s team’s retreat, and were the first things the Decepticon jets saw when they emerged from the mist cloud.

“Holy slag, ghost Autobots!”

“There’s no such thing as - _holy slag!”_

The jets scattered again, any hope of proper formation gone; Optimus Prime roared for his troops to fire, taking full advantage of their confusion. As they reached the edge of the Ark-Autobots’ defensive line, Hot Rod risked a look back, and saw Optimus Prime holding his ground painted over with those strange, beautiful designs.

“Wow,” he whispered, spark leaping. Not even Kup’s cranky herding behind the lines could break the spell cast on him by that moment.

“Welcome to Earth!” someone caroled, and Springer laughed aloud. 

“It sure isn’t boring!” he called back, and the stranger Autobot snickered as they rushed past to help harry the Decepticons. In truth it was less a battle than a rout - the moment the painted Autobots had appeared the Decepticons had nigh-unanimously decided that tonight was a bad time for them to be out of the base.

 _“Run, little robot, run away home!”_ someone else yelled, their voice pitched high and creaking, and there was an honest-to-Primus yelp from somewhere in amongst the Decepticon mob.

“Ghost Autobots an’ sparkeaters - that’s it, I’m outta here!” 

The Decepticon forces turned and fled, a rather wobbly Starscream screeching for them to _get back here you cowards_ as he chased after them with dents and energon spatters still fouling his wings.

The big, solid-looking red mech covered in speckled glyphs let out a whoop, punching the air. “Ain’t never a good day to be a Decepticon!”

Optimus laughed, clapping Ironhide’s shoulder. “Good work, everyone. An excellent way to welcome our friends to Earth.” With Ironhide at his side, he strode back to the front lines and hugged Ultra Magnus without a trace of shame. “It’s so good to see you, old friend.”

Magnus, apparently used to the Prime’s teddy-bear-like tendencies, returned the hug. “And you, Prime. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to get in contact with you before now.”

“Your people were your priority. As it should be.” Prime disengaged and turned to the remaining four newcomers. “Kup. You’re looking as feisty as ever.”

Kup grinned. “Watch it, youngster, or I’ll see if you remember how to run drills.” Optimus cowered theatrically and Kup laughed and flung his arms around his Prime, hugging more enthusiastically than Magnus could ever dream. “Look at you,” he crowed, giving Optimus’s helm a shake, “makin’ the ‘Cons run at the sight of ya! I knew you’d make us proud.”

“Kup,” Optimus growled in mock-embarrassment, and Kup laughed again and let him go.

Springer was greeted with much more dignity and a handclasp. “Elita-One has told me of some of your exploits since the Ark launched. I look forward to hearing more.”

Springer chuckled. “Ah, they’re all the same story. Fly in, wreck Shockwave’s slag, fly out again singing _Ballad of the Drunken Convoy._ You know, the usual.”

Optimus groaned, but there was a laugh behind it. “Are people still singing that? I had hope it had been forgotten over the last four million years.”

“Sorry, Prime, you can’t have everything.”

“A shame, I’m sure.” Optimus turned to the last two members of Magnus’s crew. “And you must be Hot Rod and Arcee. I’m so pleased to finally meet you.”

Hot Rod’s vocalizer was paralyzed. Spoken to and smiled at by Optimus Prime, marked over and painted like a living avatar of Primus! He concentrated on trying not to look like a complete dork as Arcee bravely picked up the slack for both of them. “It’s an honor, sir-”

Her voice was lost in a squeak as Optimus scooped them both up and hugged the dickens out of them.

There was a faint chuckle behind them, and a collection of muted and not-so-muffled ‘awwww’-ing noises that completely failed to penetrate for either of the younglings. Snuggled into solid, scarred plating that radiated heat from the battle, shocked into clinging by the welcome and comfort offered by a complete stranger, Hot Rod let out a tiny noise he’d never admit to afterward and hid his face against Optimus’ plating. 

After a long moment, Optimus tightened his arms slightly around them both and gently set them back on their pedes again; Arcee swayed slightly, looking just a little dazed, and gave the Prime a brilliant smile when his optics crinkled at her.

“Welcome to Earth,” Optimus said gently.

Someone carefully, deliberately scuffed a pede and Optimus turned their way, giving Hot Rod a chance to remember where his pedes were and how legs worked. Kup quietly patted his shoulder, grinning. “Easy, lad,” he murmured in Hot Rod’s audial. “Takes everybody like that, meeting him the first time.”

The break in Optimus’ attention gave Arcee and Hot Rod a chance to collect themselves, and they both refocused on a new mech with blue and white marking and - were those white optics? - talking to the Prime. Optimus patted the doorwinged mech’s shoulder and turned back to Ultra Magnus’ group; the younglings did their best to look attentive.

“There is still time and precedent to complete the Trek of the Homeless,” the Prime told them, optics crinkling again at the younger Autobots’ amazement, “if you would like to participate. Think of it as a welcome to our second home.”

Magnus stirred uneasily, clearly sending something to Optimus across the comm; the Prime’s optics flashed in shock, then narrowed determinedly. “Now more than ever,” he said firmly, “some things are too important to lose.”

*

“Hold still, please,” the doorwinged mech said calmly; Hot Rod did his best to comply.

They had scrambled back to the Ark in some confusion - the Cybertron-based mechs gawping at the great ship embedded in the side of the mountain, then again at the processional route now wreathed in mist and glowing softly in the dark - with Magnus clearly conferencing with Optimus and some of the other officers all the way back. The Prime was clearly worried, but just as clearly had faith in Elita-One and her crew, and the doorwinged officer had quietly but firmly weighed in on the side of completing the procession. They had pulled up close to the route, the other Autobots scuffling good-naturedly and wiping themselves down, trying to fix any scuffs and dings in their paint, and a small group of ‘Bots had come over to the Cybertron team.

“Welcome to Earth,” one had said politely - Hot Rod couldn’t help staring. The other mech was sleek and graceful, his accent completely unfamiliar, and he was painted up in delicate silver and blue-white designs like nothing the youngling had seen before. “My name is Mirage, and this is Sunstreaker.” He’d briefly introduced the other mechs in the group, then asked if they’d like to be _painted._

“I’m afraid we don’t have the pleasure of giving you full Trek designs at the moment,” Mirage had said apologetically, “but we can promise to do what we can in the time we have.”

They had all enthusiastically agreed, but while the others all knew where they had onlined and what style they wanted their few glyphs and decorations to be, Hot Rod only looked blank and increasingly anxious.

“I don’t _know_ where I came online,” he whispered to Kup in a panic, but the older mech had only ruffled his helm and told him not to worry.

“Reckon I know what we can do about that,” Kup said, and looked around; as if summoned, the quiet doorwinged mech from before came forward out of the mist and Hot Rod jumped. 

The mech - Prowl, Prowl, one of the mechs he’d heard stories about since before his paint had even dried - had simply nodded and fetched a thin brush that looked too delicate to use on Hot Rod’s paint.

“Don’t worry,” Prowl had told him gently, eerie white optics kind. “Primus bears us all, regardless of where we were built. You don’t need to know to be welcome.”

Hot Rod had fidgeted, couldn’t help it. “So - what are you gonna paint? Sir.”

That had earned him a smile, to his everlasting surprise. “How would you like to represent the Dreamer?”

That earned another blank look, and a pleading glance at Kup for help - “One of the aspects of Primus, lad,” Kup reminded him. “The Creator, the Dreamer…”

“The Bearer, the Warrior, the Healer and the Keeper of the Well,” Hot Rod recited obediently when Kup trailed off in encouragement. “I remember.”

“Would you rather be one of the other aspects?” Prowl asked. “It’s all right if you’d prefer a more active role.”

Hot Rod thought again of Optimus - Bearer and Warrior, he’d been, if anyone was. “No,” he answered, smiling slightly, “the Dreamer is okay.”

He held that image in his mind as Prowl painted glyphs across his cheeks and nasal ridge, as patient and still as he’d ever been in his life, and when Prowl proclaimed him done and nudged him off the crate he was using as a stool, he tried to look calm and solemn. “How do I look?”

“Just like the Dreamer, lad.” Kup’s voice was rough with fondness. “Just like the Dreamer.”

Hot Rod couldn’t hide a smile. He moved aside so Arcee could take his place, and joined Kup at the wall.

“I’m from Iacon,” Arcee told Prowl, “but do you mind if I choose an aspect of Primus too?”

Prowl’s white optics creased in a smile. “You’re welcome to. Which aspect would you like?”

Arcee grinned. “The Keeper.”

*

The Autobots took the last leg of the Trek slowly, partially out of thoughtfulness for their new arrivals and partially because the collective attitude was one of reluctance to let this night end. It had hardly been a traditional Cybertronian Trek, even discounting the interruption to do battle with the Decepticons, and the giddy leftover energy resulted in more of a mobile dance party than a solemn march. Sideswipe’s version of the Homeless night won out over Bluestreak’s after all, but he was too busy filling Hot Rod’s and Arcee’s audials to mind.

“-and that’s Hound and Mirage on the dais next to the table of goodies - Jazz made those, they’re _really_ good, just wait ‘til you try them - and on Hound’s shoulder is Spike, our first human friend! Oh, I can’t wait to introduce you, Spike’s a lot of fun and he’s so curious about us. He’s recording the Treks to share with his planet, you know, kind of a cultural exchange thing.”

“We’ve heard of him,” Hot Rod said, his optics wide - in his own way Spike was as legendary as any of the Ark crew. “They say he traveled all the way to Cybertron and back to get Cybertonium for everybody.”

“He sure did!” Bluestreak beamed. “Look, we’re almost to the dais. Get ready-”

As Optimus Prime set his pede on the dais again, a loud cheer rippled through the procession. “Welcome home,” Prowl called above the voices of the Homeless players, and swept up in all the excitement, Hot Rod and Arcee shouted wordlessly in joy along with their new comrades.

Prowl fulfilled his part of the ceremony gladly, guiding the rest of the Autobots up onto the dais to join the others and making sure the processional route held no stragglers before setting a pede on the dais himself. Those Autobots who had watched the procession rather than walk alongside it also had an important part to play - handing out the goodies to those sparks who had wandered before being guided home. 

The mechs from Cybertron hadn’t seen anything like it in vorns, but the youngest ones had _never_ seen so many goodies in so many shapes, colours and flavours in their lives. The Earth Autobots swarmed them like a well-meaning hive of bees.

“Hey, kiddo - try one of my spiral galaxies,” Jazz tempted, floating a plate of goodies under Arcee’s nose.

“Oooh, and some of these!” 

“Here, load up a plate,” Hound said kindly, seeing the younglings about to disappear under the crowd. “There’s plenty, try whatever you like.”

Hot Rod hesitated, though he clearly was desperate to shove a whole spiral galaxy into his mouth at once. “But - there’s all this, but Elita-One and the others don’t have anything like it on Cybertron.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jazz ruffled his helm, and Hound tried not to chuckle at Hot Rod’s poleaxed expression. “You haven’t seen the concentrated-energy goodies ready to get shipped up to them. Wanna see before or after you eat that goodie~?”

“.....after,” Hot Rod beamed, and Arcee grinned with him. “But thanks.”

Preoccupied by both goodies and younglings, most of the ‘Bots didn’t notice Prowl slipping quietly away.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl shows his true colors.

“I hope you’re not plannin’ on goin’ up there alone.”

Prowl glanced up, perfectly calm and unsurprised to see Jazz leaning on the doorjamb to the washracks. “As soon as I’m finished here, I’m going to present Optimus with a plan and a request for a small strike team.”

“He won’t authorize it.” Jazz entered and picked up a sponge, sitting down to help Prowl rinse off the last of the suds. “I know you’re worried - you think Prime isn’t? That’s _Elita_ goin’ up against a _sparkeater_ up there. He’s probably sittin’ on his own hands to keep from chargin’ off to help her.”

“If that’s the case, he will be emotionally unprepared to argue against my going.”

“Devious mech.” Jazz poked the back of his helm. “Again, this is _Elita._ That sparkeater’s got no chance.”

Prowl turned, took Jazz by the shoulder. “Jazz, I trust you. Can you trust me when I tell you this is something I have to do?”

Jazz looked at Prowl’s hand, then his face, and saw there the stubbornness that had kept the Autobots alive and moving forward. “...Put me on your strike team,” he said, covering Prowl’s hand with his own.

His partner visibly hesitated, but not for the reasons Jazz may have been imagining. Jazz was sneaky, smart as a whip and far, far too observant to take along - on the other hand, he could trust Jazz to use that against any Decepticons they came across. Plus, Jazz was a confirmed skeptic.

“On the condition that you follow any unusual orders I might give you and the rest of the strike team, no matter how strange it might sound,” he said firmly, catching Jazz’s gaze and holding it. “Praxus may have been more formal in its spirituality than many, but we are also practical with it. If I need you to do something against the sparkeater, I will have good reason for it.”

Jazz stared at him. “Wait, wait wait wait. Are you tellin’ me Praxus actually had _procedures_ for sparkeater attacks?”

“I wouldn’t quite go so far as to call them procedures,” Prowl demurred, “but I do have some ideas. ...and while I have every faith in Elita and her team, simple force won’t stand for long against one. It has to be stopped.”

_Especially now, when the barriers between enframed sparks and those seeking the Well are so thin…_

“Woah.” After a brief moment, Jazz shook himself and gave Prowl a fearless, sharp-edged grin. “In that case, babe, sign me up. This I gotta see.”

_Actually, I’m rather hoping you won’t._

*

“While I am grateful for the shipment of high-energy rations, when I sent Ultra Magnus and his band to Earth, that was not a cue for Optimus Prime to send us _more_ people to worry about.”

Elita was glaring the team from Earth down, not anywhere near pleased to see them. Jazz, Mirage and Wheeljack tried not to look cowed; only Prowl was unaffected.

“As a former Shield and Guardian of Praxus, I have specialized skills useful in dealing with situations of this nature,” Prowl replied calmly. “I prevailed upon Optimus Prime to allow us to come. Therefore I accept all responsibility for this mission.”

“He sent two of his command staff to face a sparkeater?” Elita demanded. “He cannot afford to lose you both.”

_Elita worries about Optimus as much as Optimus worries about Elita._ Prowl managed to hide a smile. “Missions on which both Jazz and I are present show a significantly higher success rate. Mirage’s unique cloaking ability will foil even a sparkeater’s senses-”

_//Not that I’ve actually tested that theory,//_ Mirage commed at him, making no secret of his nervousness.

“...and Wheeljack’s building skills will be needed in order to trap the sparkeater long enough to kill it.” Prowl nodded to her. “We place ourselves at your command, but I urge you to use what I know, given what’s at stake here.”

Elita sighed. “Very well, you’ve convinced me.” She glanced up at the dark sky, now taking on a dark amber cast. “However, I do question the need to set Shockwave’s laboratory facility alight on the way.”

Jazz gave her a rakish grin. “Ah, it’s a kindness to the poor mech. He’ll be too busy running around putting the fires out to chase after us, and likely as not run right into a sparkeater’s waiting jaws.”

“Mm-hm.” Elita gave Jazz a look that said she was _not_ fooled, sir, which just proved why she was smart enough to command the Autobots on Cybertron. Prowl just sighed faintly and moved on with what dignity his strike team had left.

“With Shockwave and his drones focussing on saving the facility, we will be able to move faster and more freely than if he had nothing else to occupy himself with. His drones won’t interest the sparkeater, and it’s far more likely to find more easy targets like the mechs in stasis rather than going to the trouble of attacking a single mech hidden behind walls and heavy defences. On the other hand, this means the mechs in stasis are at high risk and that makes it imperative that we track down the sparkeater as quickly as possible.”

“Oh, that’s no problem,” Moonracer said brightly. “I tagged it.”

“I beg your pardon,” Mirage said rather faintly. “But when you say ‘tag’...”

The sniper beamed, hefting her rifle. “Armour-piercing tracer darts! They come in handy when Shockwave loses an experiment now and then. It’s easier than tracking them all down - they take down the drones instead!”

Mirage stared in what was, for him, blatant appreciation. “I don’t suppose, when this is all over...”

“...hunting trip?” she grinned. “Maybe, if you think you can handle it.”

That earned her a wolfish grin. “And if you think you can hit _me_ with a tracer dart, you have another think coming.”

Moonracer stared, then had to fight to quiet her engine when Elita-One glanced sharply their way. “If you’ve all quite finished,” she said dryly, over Jazz’s loud snickering, “we have a sparkeater to track down.”

“Welp,” Wheeljack said brightly, “Moonracer’s sure made that part easier, and I can get started on putting some traps together. Just let me know where you want ‘em.”

*

The sparkeater hadn’t gone far from the site of its last attack. Which was both good and bad: good, because the stasis vault had been in the residential district, which had plenty of narrow streets and little alleys to trap it in; bad, because there were likely more stasis vaults in the area.

“North, crossing apartment block Gamma-12,” Moonracer reported, her expression blank as she gazed at her own HUD. “Moving at the same pace.”

“Hasn’t picked up on us yet,” Firestar commented.

“Or any new victims.” Elita had her arms crossed, her optics narrow as she watched Wheeljack and Jazz at the mouth of the alley. “This trap box of yours - it’s worked before?”

“I’ve only seen it done twice,” Prowl admitted. “But the hunters swore by it. Minimal risk, maximum results.”

“Something like that won’t hold a sparkeater for long.”

Prowl looked down at the makeshift trap, made out of whatever detritus the combined task force had been able to dig up. “No, but fortunately, it doesn’t have to. Just hold it in place long enough to put it down.”

Wheeljack waved up at them from street level; all done. _//Good job,//_ Prowl told him.

_//Now get back up here,//_ Elita added. _//No sense in risking your spark.//_

Wheeljack gladly obeyed, heading for the stairs, leaving Jazz to wait tensely down below. _//Spring mechanism’s in my hand,//_ he commed. _//Prowl, you sure about this?//_

_//My altmode is a police cruiser for a reason, Jazz. Don’t worry about me.//_ Prowl prepared himself, and started to descend the staircase.

What’s a trap without bait, after all? And this bait knew exactly what to expect.

Each step down the narrow staircase made it easier to focus, nodding to Wheeljack as they manoeuvered past each other before putting the Autobots’ brightly-burning sparks out of his mind as best he could - they would always be there, a small constellation spread out in the darkness of Cybertron’s ruins, but as he paced silently into the gloom Prowl’s awareness rippled outwards in search of something monstrous. His optics blanked, then came back online blazing white and searching for the horrible jangling panic of a spark slowly being digested.

Moving deeper into the darkness, vanishing from the watching Autobots’ optical range, Prowl hunted.

Several levels below, the sparkeater’s claws scraped through the rust gathering in the forgotten layers of Cybertron. It was never sated, unable to feel contentment, to stop glutting itself with sparks; all that was would feed its hunger, unthinking and unquenchable. It felt no pain, no fear - only hunger and the frustration of clawing at sparks it couldn’t reach. But now the barrier between living and dead was thin and it had broken through the bindings that kept its kind below - up from the starving core and into the lightless levels, and here there were stores of sparks just waiting to be cracked open and devoured!

...then something changed, a disturbance in the unseen currents of the underdark sending ripples through its awareness. The sparkeater paused, hissing faintly as the atmosphere altered; something powerful, something that meant _pain_ in the sparkeater’s limited memory, but overriding that came a blinding, scalding rush of life force that sawed ferociously upon its senses. _Spark!_

It twisted about, changing course on a clawtip, and rushed towards the pull. _Spark! Need!_

_Run, little robot, run away home…_

...above, Prowl set his pedes against the crumbling metalwork and reached out a hand. The staff he’d left behind on Earth had been returned to its original materials before the strike team had set out, but the shape of it, the weight and heft, Prowl had stored in his memory. Now, optics glowing white and psychopomp markings burning through his paint, he rebuilt the staff from sheer stubbornness and love for the sparks he guarded - with a pang of his own as the Praxian crystals formed from nothingness and blazed bright with his own power. 

_Maybe Jazz was right. It does feel oddly comforting to have a prop._

Making sure the construct was sound and finished, Prowl dismissed it and summoned it once more - now it had been crafted and he had checked it was sure and sound, he could summon it again in a sparkpulse should he need the psychosomatic reassurance of a weapon in hand. Prowl may have been most proficient with a spiritual acid rifle, but tonight of all nights the psychopomp’s staff felt right in his hands.

Mist, invisible to all but him, swirled around his ankles: the thinning of the Veil. He sank down onto his wheels, the Earth vehicle mode somehow fitting right in on his home planet, although feeling Cybertronian metal under his tires instead of asphalt was distinctly odd. He took a deep invent, and rolled out.

_//It’s speeding up!//_ Moonracer reported, her over-comm ‘voice’ sharp with shock. _//It’s headed straight for us!//_

_//As expected. Keep monitoring.//_ Prowl revved his engine, the throaty sound echoing against the empty buildings, and sped up. _//It’s going to chase me, but it’s well within my parameters to stay ahead of it.//_

_//Babe...//_ Jazz’s anxiety reached him over a private connection, one he may not have meant to establish.

_//I will return to you, Jazz.//_ The sparkeater was getting closer. Time to lead it on a maddening chase.

And take care of it before it ever reached sight of Wheeljack’s trap.

_//I trust you, babe.// But I trust that thing a whole load less._ Split-second decision made, Jazz leaped onto the narrow stairway and ran down them three at a time, heedless of the startled cries of his friends. 

“Jazz, what are- _Get back here!”_

_//Sorry ma’am!//_ he commed back, making a flying leap down from the stairs and deploying his grappling hook. _//Ain’t one for holding still too long.//_

Over Mirage’s muffled curses and attempts to apologise for his commander to Elita-One, Jazz threw himself down the side of the sheer wall - _no guardrail, seems the pre-Golden Age designers weren’t much for health and safety_ \- and swung out over the strategically-placed booby traps Wheeljack had crafted. Each one different, and if one failed Prowl could lead the sparkeater into the next - or if the monster surprised Prowl, he could draw the thing into a different snare than he’d been aiming for with minimal trouble.

_But_ minimal _trouble ain’t_ no _trouble, and I got a hunch comin’ on._

Elita-One’s unit were all impeccably trained and had thrived on guerilla tactics for the ages-long darkness when the Ark had been missing, so the comm was mercifully clear of chatter and panicked voices asking what was going on - on the other hand, that made Prowl’s suspicion all the easier to hear. _//Jazz, what are you up to?//_

_//Nothin’, babe, just swappin’ my vantage point.//_

_//Why does this not reassure me?//_

_//No clue, gorgeous.//_

_“Jazz,”_ Prowl groaned aloud. Fine - he’d just have to find and kill the sparkeater before Jazz got close.

As metal screamed under a heavy impact and Prowl’s world filled with flashing claws, Prowl reflected that his timing was either impeccable or really, really deplorable.

He jerked to one side, drifting with a screech of tires; the sparkeater pivoted and followed, claws digging gouges into the street. Prowl darted into an alley just barely wide enough for him, transformed, and called his staff into his hands, the sparkeater’s hunger beating at him as he turned. Acting on pure instinct he dropped to one knee, and the sparkeater’s swing flashed over his helm, overbalancing it just long enough that when Prowl lashed out with the staff, the monster’s clawed pedes left the ground. The staff’s crystal hooked under the sparkeater’s chestplate, and Prowl roared a wordless defiance as he threw the sparkeater up over his head and down again on its back, an impact that rattled it insensible.

Prowl stood, his entire weight on the staff keeping the sparkeater pinned; his optics blazed bright enough to light the alley. _“Give those sparks back,”_ he commanded in Primal Vernacular, power curling around his words like mist. _“Thou curse wrought in metal.”_

Even now, the sparkeater did not feel fear. Yet it snarled denial as weakness shackled its limbs down, as Primus’s psychopomp stretched a hand and called forth the sparks trapped in its digestion tank.

They were lucky; the sparks were still whole enough to recover, those most recently devoured darting free of the sparkeater’s systems first and circling around Prowl’s outstretched hand like anxious turbopuppies seeking reassurance. The sparkeater roared in frustration and gnawing hunger as its prey vanished from its clutches, thrashing as best it could against the flaking metal of the alley floor, but Prowl set a pede against the monster’s abdomen below its tank and gestured imperiously. 

_“Return them to Primus,”_ he commanded again, and this time the last spark fought its way free to shakily wobble up and settle in Prowl’s palm as though exhausted. Prowl cradled it gently against his chest, crooning soft reassurances in the Primal Vernacular that, were the sparks enframed once again, they surely would not understand. But he didn’t have time to linger - Jazz would be on his way, Prowl was sure, and the last thing he needed was an audience for this. _“Hush,”_ he murmured to the sparks, lifting the hand they clustered around and gesturing them into the halo of power hidden from the sight of the enframed. _“Thou art protected.”_ Not even Jazz’s range of sensors would be able to follow them, and nowhere would be safer until he could subtly shepherd them back to their frames.

Besides, if he lingered the sparkeater might break free or Jazz could appear and distract him, and the whole mess would begin again. Once his hand was his own again - the spark that had been most damaged by the sparkeater clinging anxiously to his fingers as Prowl nudged it, urging it to orbit his frame along the lines of his glyph-markings with the other sparks - Prowl resettled his grip on his staff, wrenched it free from the sparkeater’s chest cavity and promptly cracked it across the helm with the blazing crystals when the monster tried to rear up, _crack-crack._

_“Be no more, nightmare of darkness,”_ he snarled. _“In the name of the Creator, I condemn thee to entropy!”_

He hefted the staff high, held tight in both hands - with a mighty heave, Prowl jammed the blaze of crystals into the sparkeater’s slavering mouth. 

A brief, intense flash of power ended the sparkeater’s life, illuminated Prowl and the sparks surrounding him, and blinded Jazz for a moment. When his vision rebooted, he saw nothing that could not be explained by the laws of the universe as he knew them: just Prowl, and a dark alley, and the quickly-crumbling remains of a sparkeater.

He watched his partner lower his arms, tension draining from his frame. _//Elita-One, this is Prowl. The sparkeater is down. Repeat, the sparkeater is down.//_

_//Prowl?//_ Elita’s response was confused.

_//It ambushed me in an alley. I got a lucky shot in.//_ Prowl turned away from the rusting wreck. _//I’m sorry I made you do all that work to no purpose, Wheeljack.//_

_//I’m just glad you’re okay, Prowl,//_ came the reply. _//...you are okay, right?//_

_//Somehow, I escaped with no injuries.//_ Jazz saw Prowl smile. _//I’m coming back in.//_

Jazz stirred from his perch. A convenient ladder brought him down to ground level, and he approached Prowl with a deliberately loud step so the other wouldn’t be surprised. Sure enough, Prowl turned calmly, and smiled when he saw who it was.

“Optimus will be pleased this mission went as well as it did,” he commented.

Jazz chuckled. “He sure will.” He fell into step beside Prowl. “Listen, before we get back to the others, we should get our story straight on what happened down there.”

Prowl blinked blankly, his optics still a bit pale. “Pardon?”

“You know - the staff outta nowhere, the light show.” Jazz shrugged indolently. “I just wanna make sure my ‘what I saw’ story matches yours when someone asks.”

Only long experience at walking through updates from the frontlines kept Prowl moving, his processor suddenly, shockingly blank.

“Jazz,” he said carefully, glancing sidelong at his partner. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean.”

“Mmkay.” Jazz shrugged again, sauntering along next to Prowl with his attention outwardly focussed on the path ahead. “I mean the whole, you goin’ off alone an’ _just happenin’_ to corner the sparkeater somewhere nice an’ secluded, stabbinatin’ it with a staff I’m pretty fraggin’ sure was the same one y’used in the processional back on Earth, an’ the sparkeater goin’ out in a firework display. That’s what I mean. So, since Elita ain’t nobody’s fool, what’re we tellin’ her? ‘Cause I gotta say, ‘lucky shot’ ain’t gonna cut it with Moonracer around.”

It took an effort of will to cycle his vents, frame sluggish and heavy after the burst of power and light he’d expended, and Prowl’s processor whirled. _Of all the sparks to fall in love with, it had to be this one!_ he lamented briefly, and somewhere, distantly, he could have sworn he felt Primus chuckle.

“We tell her you caught up to me as the sparkeater was discorporating, and that you saw nothing,” Prowl said a little shortly. “I will tell her my acid rifle caught it in the mouth before it could try digesting me, and the short range impact was enough to stop it.”

“Uh-huh.”

_Too much to hope that this is the end of it-_

“An’ since the sparkeater ain’t a problem now,” Jazz continued, perfectly calm and casual, “y’can fill me in on what the frag I _really_ saw.”

Prowl fixed Jazz with a look that threatened to become a glare, one that bounced straight off his partner’s well-honed nonchalance shields. “I told you from the beginning that if you came along on this mission there would be occasions where I would need to give orders that seemed strange-”

“No orders now, Prowler.”

“-and that there were _good reasons_ for them,” Prowl finished flatly. 

“Right. An’ I went along with that, ‘cause again, I trust you. But now the danger’s over with - it is, right?” Jazz asked the question offhandedly, like _of course_ Prowl would know if there were more sparkeaters lurking in the shadows. “Then I’m askin’ you, as a fellow Autobot of rank, what those reasons are.”

“As a fellow Autobot of rank, if those reasons were something you needed to know, I would have told you already.”

“Then I’m asking as your partner. As someone who cares ‘bout you.”

_He will not, Will Not be deterred._ Prowl drew a hand over his face. “Jazz, please. I cannot have this conversation right now. I’m going to go to the stasis vault the sparkeater attacked, then we are going back to Earth to make sure nothing truly disreputable has happened in our absence, and after that - and some rest - I will be ready to talk.”

Jazz walked along beside him in silence. Prowl refused to fill that silence, letting it stretch out until Jazz, never good at going long period without talking, finally gave up with a gusty exvent. “Fine. Back to Earth, nap, bribe with a few goodies. ‘Cause I know how stubborn you can be.”

“Oh, yes, _I’m_ the stubborn one.”

*

It was easy enough to find a way to the stasis vault, even without Jazz casually agreeing they should check on it. Elita-One agreed, and Wheeljack was the nearest they had to a medic on hand - he demurred, but having experience working alongside Ratchet made him the best choice to check that the vaults hadn’t been compromised.

“Well, here we are,” Firestar sighed when they arrived. Her mournful tone was understandable; the sparkeater had torn up through the floor, and the frames the vault had contained were in no state to hold off a sparkeater. With their processors offline in stasis and no guardians on watch, the thing had simply needed to pull on the weakened bindings between spark and frame to reel in its prey. Prowl’s tanks churned in revulsion and he quietly let the others pass him, drifting to the back of the group to bend over the stasis chamber of one of the sparkless frames.

_“Be well,”_ he murmured softly, optics paling and glyphs shimmering just barely visible through the paint up his hand and arm. The spark seemed to recognise its frame and bobbled happily, needing little more than a gesture from Prowl to dive back into its empty shell.

“I think this one is stable,” he said more loudly, making sure his markings had faded before turning to the rest of the group, standing as casually as possible as they rushed past him.

It wasn’t easy, per se, but Prowl managed to manoeuvre his way around the room and return the sparks back to their frames with minimal difficulty; Wheeljack was in raptures, Elita and her team both relieved and cautious at the sparks seemingly returning to the shells they were stolen from. Jazz, on the other hand - while rushing about and enthusing along with Wheeljack and the more optimistic of the femme team - was not fooled; every time Prowl lifted his head, Jazz’s considering visor was watching him.

After the day he’d had so far, it was actually rather comforting. If Primus disapproved, Prowl reasoned, then he wouldn’t have ensparked Jazz in the first place. There was a mech who got his own way when he wanted something, and the heaviness in Prowl’s frame and exhaustion beginning to darken his processor was not something he’d want to handle alone.

_Definitely up for being bribed with a nap. Nevermind the goodies, just the nap._

* 

Spike should have gone to bed hours ago, but the footage from the Trek of the Homeless was far too absorbing. He’d been all but living among the Autobots for a good few years now, but this was a side to them that he’d never seen, except in flashes and offhanded remarks. “Primus” was a name he’d heard before, but the particulars of his - religion? Philosophy? Addition to their native vocabulary of invective? - was something Spike had resolved not to ask about unless they volunteered the information, out of respect for everything they had lost.

It was a struggle. Spike was a curious sort of human.

Now, the Autobots had volunteered this window into their spiritual practices, unasked and unsought, and Spike was entranced. And had a stack of books from the library and a million tabs open in his web browser - one of which was a half-composed email to Carly, which contained more enthused burble than scholarly reporting - cross-referencing various Earthen religious practices surrounding the afterlife and honoring the dead. There was so much to go through before he could even begin to sort his notes into something approaching a paper fit for publication, and the Autobots’ festivals were still only half over. There was still the Trek of the Awoken to go.

_Homeless = Purgatory?_ he typed, deleted it, typed it again. It occurred to him that this was the second time he’d done that. _Maybe bedtime,_ he typed, just talking to himself at this point. _Ask Prowl about his paint when he gets back. Relationship to Primus? Is Primus a math god?_

Something rattled softly behind him. “I’m going to bed, Ratch,” he called.

Another rattle, louder this time - metal on metal, with none of the healthy engine-sounds Spike had learned to associate with his friends. Multiple encounters with the Decepticon symbiotes flashed through his mind, and he turned quickly even as he rolled his eyes at himself for being so paranoid -

Claws raked the air in front of his face. A toothy maw gaped open in a silent laugh.

_Sparkeater!_

Spike whirled, snatched up the nearest blunt object and swung with all his strength. The snaggle-toothed horror lurched, stumbled back towards him, and Spike let out a yell of terrified rage before leaping into the fray. He battered at the sparkeater with all his strength, crunching metal squeaking and flying off in shreds in all directions, and it was only after the thing had been reduced to a mangled heap of tinfoil that Spike realised the last strut he’d been swinging at was actually a long metal pole attached to the sad remnants of the sparkeater’s shoulders.

Clutching his makeshift weapon - one of Ratchet’s miniaturised screwdriver-equivalents, now he stopped to look - and heaving for breath, Spike tried to make his tired brain focus past the tidal wave of adrenaline and mama-bear protectiveness. “What - the fuck,” he panted, warily stretching out to poke the tangle of metal...parts with the end of the screwdriver.

Over the crinkle of - was that really _tinfoil?_ \- he could hear someone stifling sniggers.

It didn’t take much to put two and two together to make-

_“Sideswipe!”_ he roared, and took off for the staircase down from the worktop at a dead run.

Too late Sideswipe squirmed out of his hiding place, too late realised past his hilarity that Spike clearly had not taken his prank well. “Woah, hey, Spike! It was just a joke!”

His reply was an incoherent yell and an enraged human charging at him like Ratchet taking down a Decepticon frontliner; in the most sensible act he’d managed that night, Sideswipe shrieked and ran for his life.

*

The strike team returned to Earth in the early morning, the first hint at dawn lighting the sky over the Ark as they shook another round of Starscream’s paint from their pedes and trooped wearily inside. Mirage headed off to find Hound and mutter things about his headstrong commanding officer into his partner’s plating; Wheeljack trotted merrily into his lab with the data he’d managed to collect, and Prowl shuffled in the general direction of his and Jazz’s quarters, optics offline and most of his weight resting on Jazz’s shoulder.

“Berth,” he mumbled, and felt Jazz nod.

“Sure thing, babe,” the saboteur murmured, but anything else he might have said was cut off by a high-pitched screech and the thunder of pedes.

Prowl’s helm snapped up in alarm, then recognition sank in; “Sideswipe,” he growled, optics darkening again just in time for the mech in question to hurtle past them at headlong speed. A nearby door slid open and Springer darted out into the corridor, weapons bristling.

“What’s going on?” he burst out, and Jazz opened his mouth to reply when another headlong charge passed them - Spike, red in the face and hauling one of Ratchet’s tools, pounding along at a pace that threatened to keep going all night and his expression set to ‘murder’. The officers watched him go in resignation - Prowl - and increasingly hysterical glee - Jazz - as Springer simply stared.

“Uh...?”

Prowl lifted a finger to forestall him. “I’m off duty,” he informed Springer and the world at large, and Jazz lost any hope he might otherwise have had of keeping his composure.

Another door slid open and Sunstreaker leaned against the frame, optics foggy from recharge and clearly not in the best of moods. Glancing between the two officers, Prowl now grumbling at the lower range of hearing, Springer appealed to Sideswipe’s twin for some kind of sense to prevail.

“....the _slag_ was _that?”_

Sunstreaker glared blearily in the direction his twin had fled, dropped his gaze to Spike vanishing around a corner after Sideswipe, then glanced back at Springer.

“Advice,” he rasped, his voice still static-fogged and clearly wanting to get back to his berth. “Don’t ever fuck with the human Autobots. You don’t want to know what happens if you do.”

Springer stared down the hall where Sideswipe and Spike had disappeared. “...but,” he said intelligently.

A ghost of a smirk showed on Sunstreaker’s face. “You think that one’s scary? You haven’t met the femme yet.” His gaze turned to Prowl and (currently a pile of giggle on the floor) Jazz, utterly unimpressed by the latter. “Prowl, permission to disown my brother.”

“Off. Duty,” Prowl repeated with patience as infinite and brittle as the salt flats of Bolivia. “And you don’t need an officer’s permission to disown your brother.”

Sunstreaker mulled that over in his sleep-fogged mind. “...right.” 

He closed the door again, and Prowl turned to Springer, currently reeling his jaw off the floor. “Springer, help me drag Jazz upright again, would you?”

“Uh. Sure.” He stooped to grab an arm. Prowl grabbed the other, and between them they managed to get Jazz mostly upright until Springer unthinkingly muttered “A little armor and he could try out for the Wreckers,” which set Jazz off again.


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jazz has a headache, and younglings have a bath.

“Are you done?”

The question inspired a fresh giggle from Jazz, but nothing as long-lasting as the hysterics of before. “Yeah, think so,” he grinned, only slightly apologetic. “That was a hell of a thing to come back to, you gotta admit.”

“A hell of a thing that _someone else_ can deal with.” Prowl joined Jazz on the berth, resolute in his intention to recharge until noon. Dealing with sparkeaters was _hard_ when you were enframed. He’d had no choice - discarding his frame to deal with the sparkeater would have presented far more significant inconveniences. Primus couldn’t very well summon up another body for him on command, after all.

...it occurred to him that he was still alone on the berth. Well, not alone, Jazz was there, but normally he couldn’t lay down without his partner draping himself over him like a touch-hungry thermal wrap. “...Jazz?”

Jazz was sitting on the berth’s edge, unnaturally quiet. “...yeah. Time for bed,” he sighed, and turned to lie down and curl up with Prowl. Prowl tucked his helm under Jazz’s chin, but even as Jazz’s arms went around him he felt worried and cold.

The cold stayed with him, even as his exhausted frame slipped into an uneasy recharge; his body needed rest, but his processor and spark stayed uneasy and anxious. Prowl had never experienced dreaming before Primus gave his vassals frames and he wasn’t sure he liked it - the world shifted and changed around him, and what made sense at the time became nonsense after he woke up. For a being who dealt with many planes of reality at a time, the thought was terrifying.

This time, despite his weariness, Prowl wandered through the cold until he trembled, unable to find somewhere to stop. Everything was hazy and confusing, and no matter which way he went everything looked the same - winding corridors of purple-grey smoke circled and doubled-back on themselves, criss-crossed each other until he was exhausted. At a loss for anything better to do and his pedes so heavy they dragged across the filmy floor, Prowl gave in to his frame’s demands and sat down hard in a heap on the ground.

...the floor gave way in a billowing stream of fog, sending Prowl tumbling with no way to control the fall. He flailed in midair, twisting and turning for anything to save himself, but he was falling faster and faster toward a dull grey frame far below. Hope bloomed; if he could make it to the frame he’d be safe!

Prowl hit the empty frame perfectly on target; his momentum checked, he felt a brief flicker of warmth and safety-

-then it burst around him, shocked back into the sudden depthless cold, and he was falling-falling-falling forever...

-and Jazz’s arms were around him and he was _home,_ trembling and clinging, processor fighting to come down from its panic. Primus, he _hated_ dreams.

His optics onlined, looked up. Jazz’s face was close to his own, and if there had been any distrust lingering from the night before, it didn’t show now. His expression was all love and worry - _for_ Prowl, not _about_ Prowl, and that just made him feel even more guilty. He lowered his gaze again, and allowed Jazz to hug him close.

By the time Jazz let go, Prowl had calmed down enough to face what he should have faced the night before. He steeled himself, and applied the strategy their human friends called “ripping off the band-aid.” “I’m a psychopomp,” he said.

Jazz was silent for a moment. “Y’know, you’re supposed to tell bedtime stories _before_ bed…”

“Jazz,” Prowl interrupted, pained. “Please. This is not easy as it is.”

“Babe, you can’t-” Jazz shook his head. “You can’t say something like that and expect me to believe it right off. That’s like sayin’ you’re an avatar of Primus.”

Prowl lifted his helm to give his lover an arch look. “Jazz, remind me how long you have been acquainted with the bearer of the Matrix?”

“That’s different. The Matrix is a tangible object,” Jazz retorted. “It exists, it’s got mass an’ volume, an’ if we cared to as a culture we could almost definitely figure out how it worked. It ain’t magic, just technology we don’t have a handle on yet.” He huffed at Prowl’s amused face. “And Optimus Prime is a great big dorkasaurus. Nothin’ magical about that.”

“Jazz.”

“What? He is.”

“ _Jazz._ ‘Dorkasaurus’?”

Jazz tried to muffle a snicker. “Well, what would you call him?”

“My leader. My Prime,” Prowl answered with lofty dignity. “A wise and kind mech who has taken on heavy burdens and bears them with grace.”

“Do I need to get the pictures of him lettin’ the local elementary school dress him up as a reindeer last Christmas?”

...which was just unfair, to bring that up, and Prowl could no longer keep a straight face. He sputtered into Jazz’s chest.

“Dorkasaurus,” Jazz repeated smugly.

There was clearly no further point arguing, if there ever had been to begin with. “...very well. Dorkasaurus.”

Jazz beamed, and Prowl wondered to himself why he’d thought this would be straightforward. ...or frightening, with Jazz there.

“Do you want me to explain, or would you rather keep going with the dinosaur comments?” he asked Jazz’s bumper, and felt rather than heard Jazz’s chuckle.

“No, no, g’wan, babe.” Prowl got the impression that Jazz thought this was all after-effects of a bad dream, but being humoured was better than outright denial. “I’m listening.”

Well, he did know that Jazz was a skeptic. Patting Jazz’s plating until he found Jazz’s hand, Prowl laced his fingers with his partner’s and thought about where to start.

“Did I tell you that I was a Sigma spark?” he said quietly; Jazz tilted his head, then shook it.

“Don’t think so, babe. But then I kinda assume everybody is...?”

“I take it you’ve not met many carriers,” Prowl replied absently; Jazz started to shake his helm again, then did a doubletake that Prowl couldn’t help but feel. “...but that’s something for later. When my spark left the Sigma chamber - I don’t know why, but the frame they had laid out couldn’t or wouldn’t support my spark. At that point, spark support was far less advanced than it is now-”

“Woah, hold on,” Jazz broke in. “Spark support’s been basic care for I don’ even know how long!”

“Mmm. You may have noticed that my creation date was never registered on my profile.”

Jazz’s mouth worked as he turned that over in his mind, and Prowl ploughed on regardless. “My spark failed without a frame. Vector Sigma only releases sparks, it can’t take them back; the only place to go was the Well.”

His vents sighed softly, relaxing almost despite himself in Jazz’s arms, warm and safe against the memory. “It’s...difficult to remember clearly now. I was confused, and frightened; I didn’t understand what was happening. Only that I couldn’t stop falling, and I was very cold.” Jazz’s arms tightened automatically around him, and Prowl smiled softly in the fierce embrace. “Primus’ sleep was lighter then, more able to interact with the frameless, and He caught me. I’ve never felt so safe. ...He told me I could go back to the Well and try again with another frame, or I could become a psychopomp. I’d never been enframed, so I essentially had no bad habits I would have to unlearn.”

Jazz, bless him, was trying so hard to process this - not just the information, but an entirely new worldview, the realization that he had been _wrong_ about something so fundamental - that Prowl could almost hear the gears whirring in his head. “Do you need a break?” he asked. “Any questions for me?”

“So…” Jazz blew out his vents slowly. “Primus exists.”

“Oh, yes.”

“And you’re… one of his guardian angels.”

“Of a sort, I suppose.”

Jazz exvented again. “I ain’t the worshippin’ type.”

“Oh, Jazz.” Prowl reached up to nudge his cheek. “Primus is no dictator, nor a tool of dictators. He _loves_ us. All of us. He doesn’t demand our worship, nor even our obedience, nor does He threaten punishment for whatever transgression you’re worrying about. The Well is full of atheists.”

“Former atheists, you mean.”

“You’d be surprised. Some sparks can be remarkably stubborn about such things.” Prowl threaded his fingers through Jazz’s. “It can be easy to misunderstand from the outside, but the formal rituals, the prayers you think of as worship - they’re simply ways to reach a being who cannot be experienced directly on this plane of existence. You need never make use of such things if you don’t wish to.”

Jazz dimmed his optics, tilted his head down to press his lips to Prowl’s fingers. “I wanna understand,” he admitted. “Even if me an’ Primus never - y’know - meet. There’s this whole part of you I never - I mean, slag, I got secrets too, but this…” He sighed, and Prowl squeezed his hand as his spark contracted. “...can I see?” Jazz asked. “What you turned into when you defeated the sparkeater?”

Prowl hesitated, and hated the way Jazz’s visor dimmed. “I can try,” he hedged. “The problem is that - well - the Trek of the Homeless is over. The barriers between sparks and the enframed are stronger now, and that most likely means that you won’t be able to see the difference if I tried. But I will, if you still want me to.”

“....yeah. I mean - I wanna see, if I can.” Jazz nodded his determination, visor brightening; Prowl was quietly sure that Jazz was dialling up every filter he had, and while he knew it would do Jazz no good, he couldn’t help but applaud his partner’s stubbornness. He shifted on the berth, and squeezed Jazz’s hand again before moving away.

“All right. Are you ready?”

There was a brief pause, Jazz no doubt checking and double-checking the visual readouts on his visor, before the saboteur nodded again. “Okay, babe, hit me.”

“I’d really prefer not to,” Prowl murmured, and as Jazz snickered he allowed the markings hidden under his paint to burn bright and clear as his optics reset to white. There was a long pause, Prowl sitting serenely in all his glory on the edge of the berth as Jazz stared openly at him.

“.....didja do it yet?” Jazz finally asked, and Prowl was hard-pressed not to laugh.

“Yes, and I did warn you,” he replied. “Would it help if I summoned the staff-construct again?”

“The whatnow? ...oh, right. Yeah, go for it.”

Holding out his hand, Prowl called the seeming of the staff forth from nothingness; Jazz squinted, leaned forward, and finally stretched out on the berth to wave his hand back and forth _through_ the summon just above Prowl’s curled fingers - all to no avail.

“Babe,” he huffed in frustration. “If this’s a prank, you outdid yourself.”

“I’m sorry, love,” Prowl said with every scrap of sincerity he could muster. “I’m really not supposed to be seen by anyone at all.”

“But I can see _you._ You’re right there,” Jazz exclaimed. “Things can’t just be visible for some people an’ not others! Or visible sometimes an’ not other times! That ain’t how stuff works!”

“On this plane, no,” Prowl conceded. “But remember, this physical body is not my native form, but one I took on specifically to join the Autobots. In my true form I would be entirely invisible to you.”

He immediately regretted saying that: Jazz looked deeply unhappy at the thought. “...are there any scans you would show up on?” he asked.

“...um.” Prowl blinked blankly. “Why do you ask?”

*

“Jazz,” Ratchet groaned. “I got work to do. How many more scans are you gonna make me run?”

“How many more you got?” Jazz chirped, swinging his legs. “Just aim the spectrometer at him.” He waved a hand at an uncomfortable-looking Prowl. “Humor me, okay? ‘Cause we’re friends.”

Ratchet did as Jazz asked, because they were friends, but because he and Prowl were also friends, he had to ask, “What exactly are you looking for?”

“Nothin’ bad.” Jazz peered at the spectrometer’s readout with Ratchet. “I just wanna see what he looks like.”

“What he-” Ratchet sputtered. “Seriously, Jazz, what the frag are you up to?”

“It’s all right, Ratchet,” Prowl sighed. He settled himself on the edge of the nearest berth, and Ratchet gave him a piercing Look. 

“Do I even want to know how much recharge you got after coming back?” he demanded, folding his arms despite Jazz’s attempt at a puppy-visor. Prowl looked rather startled in turn, then relaxed.

“Really, I’m fine. Yesterday was....very long. Honestly, this is more relaxing than anything else I could be doing with my afternoon.”

“Hmph. Sure, sure, I’ll play along.” Ratchet’s hands moved over the spectrometer’s settings, obligingly moving across the light spectrum and through the multitude of available readouts, but to Jazz’s real and obvious disappointment nothing more of Prowl became visible outside of his already-visible frame and field.

“I did warn you,” the Praxian murmured, and Ratchet’s optic ridges drew together at Jazz’s pout.

“Ain’t fair, babe,” Jazz grumbled, and Prowl’s optics softened with a mixture of love and regret that Ratchet couldn’t quite decipher for himself. He glared between them as he clicked his spectrometer off. “Anything else I can help you gentlemechs with?”

“How ‘bout a hug?” Jazz beamed.

“A hug, huh? Sure.” Smirking, Ratchet bypassed Jazz’s outstretched arms and hugged Prowl - who after a moment’s startled blinking returned the embrace, as Jazz howled in protest of such a terrible, unfeeling medic. “Now both of you get outta my medbay. And nudge Ultra Magnus in here while you’re at it, I won’t be satisfied with those little ‘current medical status’ things the big lug pinged me. Full medical workup for him. Full medical workups for the lot!”

“Uh, sure doc,” Jazz giggled, “we’ll tell him, but Magnus is about equal to Optimus Prime as far as rank and mass both go, what makes you think we can nudge him anywhere?”

“Same way you manage with Optimus,” Ratchet grunted. “Find a really big lever.”

“‘Really big lever’, he says,” Jazz mused as they left the medbay. “Where the frag are we gonna find a lever _that_ big that works on Magnus? Ain’t like we know him as well as...”

He trailed off, meeting Prowl’s optics as Prowl turned to him.

“Kup!” they both exclaimed.

*

“Um...”

“Awww, it’s okay. Ratchet don’t bite!” Jazz said cheerfully, shooing a reluctant Hot Rod towards the medbay. Behind them Prowl shook his head, smiling faintly, and caught Arcee’s optic. 

“He’s right,” he reassured her faintly anxious expression. “Ratchet may well go after Ultra Magnus for putting off coming to see him, but he won’t do any worse than growl at him. He’s spent the war haranguing reluctant frontliners into getting check-ups, so his manner is-”

“Bitey?” Jazz carolled back, and Prowl winced.

“That was not going to be my first choice of words, thank you Jazz...”

It was enough to make the younglings giggle, at least, and they made it into medbay easily enough. Prowl and Jazz got the younger two settled, Springer ambling in behind, and they settled in to watch Kup drag Magnus in for his checkup by an audial spike.

They didn’t have long to wait. “Kup, this is unnecessary,” Magnus was protesting as Kup dragged him in, implacable as only an old soldier could be. “I am well within working parameters.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Ratchet spoke up from behind his scanner, currently pointed at a patient Arcee. “Siddown, you, and stop setting a bad example for the eight-bits.”

“Eight-bits?” Hot Rod muttered as Magnus blinked in amazement at Ratchet.

Jazz chuckled and nudged the big mech. “Do as he says,” he advised. “Outside the medbay, normal chain of command applies; in here, Ratchet’s word is law.”

“Damn straight.” Ratchet tapped Arcee’s arm. “Medical access port. And when’s the last time you had an oil change?”

“Sir…!” Arcee covered her face with one hand, mortified; Hot Rod made a valiant attempt not to giggle.

“Never mind, I’m prescribing a full systems flush, and the same will probably apply to you too, young mech, so wipe that grin off.”

“I wasn’t laughing at her!” Hot Rod insisted hotly, and Jazz pinged Prowl for attention, with an _isn’t that adorable?_ glyph string attached. Prowl twitched a wing in response, a distinctly _hush, you, and don’t you dare giggle_ gesture.

“Oh, no?” Ratchet chuckled, not nearly as careful of a youngling’s easily-bruised pride. “Who were you laughing at, then?”

“Ultra Magnus,” Hot Rod answered without a trace of shame.

Ratchet barked a laugh; Magnus huffed. “Well, as I seem to have been temporarily demoted, I’ll allow it.”

As Ratchet worked, Jazz deliberately loitered and chattered with the younger ‘Bots. The strike team had missed the Hour of the Well, after all, and while Jazz wasn’t of a spiritual nature he still wanted to hear all the gossip - and find out how the new mechs were settling in amongst the Ark crew. In a sense it was perfect timing that they arrived on a holiday, with goodies everywhere and all the Autobots in a thoughtful or exuberant mood. Prowl lingered by Ultra Magnus, datapad in hand, and almost every time Jazz glanced over he was smiling at something the big mech had said, or at some reminiscence of Kup’s. Made Jazz’s spark warm to see it, and he chattered away happily to the young ‘Bots like he was a youngling himself, much to Springer’s amusement from his medberth in the middle of the ‘bay.

“So, whatcha think of the Treks so far?” Jazz asked, swinging his pedes at the end of Arcee’s berth. “Been a long time since we got to celebrate an’ everyone wanted to get everything just right.”

“Shame about the ‘Cons,” Springer said dryly, and Jazz snickered.

“Yeah, well, welcome ta Earth. ‘Cons crash a party, we crash ‘em right back!”

The younglings both laughed, then Arcee leaned forward with a confiding sort of air about her. Jazz glowed to himself, briefly, then gave her a cheerily warm grin of encouragement.

“Um, sir? We were wondering - about the Hour of the Well, with everyone around the dais, is that what it was like before Earth? Everyone seemed to be doing something different and we weren’t sure what _we_ should do.”

Jazz chuckled. “Now you got me curious. What kindsa things were people doin’?”

“Well… there were a big group of them just sitting with their optics off, and there was a group - dancing, I guess, though it wasn’t like any dancing I’ve ever seen. It was all slow.”

“Optimus Prime was singing,” Hot Rod put in, his optics faraway.

“That was probably a ritual chant,” Prowl offered. “They were often used in ritual observances, especially in Iacon, where Optimus Prime is from.”

Hot Rod glanced down, his hands clasping in his lap. “It sounded sad.”

“Sometimes the Hour of the Well is a time for sadness,” Prowl nodded. “We’ve all lost much, and sometimes we cannot properly grieve for it. We were lucky this cycle that we had some breathing space in which to express, or feel, sorrow.”

“Is that what everyone was expressing?” Arcee asked. “Grief?”

She and Hot Rod shared a glance, one of a dawning glimpse at understanding that struck Prowl to the core. These were _younglings,_ he realized, younglings who’d been ensparked in wartime. They didn’t know what a peaceful Cybertron looked like; to them, war was as normal as oxygen to a human.

“Not always,” Jazz was saying as Prowl shook off those thoughts. “Sometimes it’s just a pause to rest and renew. That’s how it was where I came from.”

Hot Rod pounced on the new avenue of questioning. “Where are you from?”

Jazz grinned. “Built in Uraya, but I didn’t stay there long. I’m listed as Polyhexian, or I would be if there were still lists. Still remember the Hour in Uraya, though - they’d ring the big chimes in the center of the city, and then everybody would go to the public baths for a ritual cleansing.”

Hot Rod looked distinctly unimpressed. “They’d make you take a bath?”

“Not such a bad idea in your case, lad,” Kup pointed out, and Hot Rod yelped and hid behind Prowl.

“Now there’s a great idea,” Ratchet chipped in, leaning around to stab the air with a stylus. “Jazz, you’re on youngling-bathing duty. Prowl, you’re on Jazz-bathing duty. Kup, you wanna go along or get a check-up first?”

Over the startled howl of denial from Hot Rod and Springer’s spluttering, Kup snickered before seriously considering the question. “Nah, let the young’uns have some fun. Besides, someone’s gotta ride herd on Magnus, make sure he doesn’t run off while you’re not lookin’.”

Ratchet grinned, something decidedly wolfish in the expression making Ultra Magnus lean the tiniest bit further away from him. “Suddenly I got the feeling my life’s gonna get that much easier with you around.”

There was another protesting, muffled noise from behind Prowl’s doorwings; over Jazz’s strangled hilarity, Prowl tilted his doors as high as he could and tried to peer around his own bumper to meet Hot Rod’s optics, but the youngling determinedly kept ducking around behind him. If Prowl kept trying to catch sight of him they’d wind up going in circles, and from Jazz’s increasingly squeaky muffled noises he wasn’t the only one coming to that conclusion.

“Hot Rod,” he said as calmly as he could; that made Ratchet snort as well as Jazz this time, though Prowl couldn’t for the life of him think why. “There’s no need to hide. We may only have the space at present for a single group bath, but there are washracks if you don’t like the thought of a pool.”

“...a pool?” Springer repeated, sounding dubious.

“Boiling hot H2O, straight from the volcano,” Jazz said with relish. “Kinda sulphur-y right now, but just you wait til we can get some more duty cycles in on it.”

“And it’s big enough for a group?”

“Depends on the group,” Jazz admitted. “But it’s big enough for Optimus to stretch out and fall asleep in - which is adorable, by the way.”

Springer looked willing enough to try it; Arcee was clearly desperately intrigued. Prowl took the opportunity to try to meet Hot Rod’s optics again, and this time managed it. Hot Rod winced a little bit, clearly torn between trying to salvage what was left of his pride or just digging a hole and pulling it in after him.

And Jazz continuing to be visibly amused was _not helping, dammit._

“It is entirely up to you,” he said gently. “You don’t even have to decide right now.”

Hot Rod glanced past him - at Arcee or Springer or perhaps both, Prowl didn’t turn around to look. “I’ll try it,” he said.

“All right. This way, everyone.”

Prowl led the group - still with Hot Rod sticking close enough behind him that the youngling was almost treading on his pedes, and Jazz’s high-pitched comms about ducklings and baby chicks were less than helpful - out of the medbay and down, out past the reinforced section of the Ark. Mercifully the medbay had survived the long-ago crash relatively intact, thanks to the thicker plating and reinforcing around it, but sections of the ship on the lower levels were less lucky. They passed out of the ship proper through a breach of the hull, the metal floor crusted over with stalagmites, and into a corridor dug out of the mountain itself - as they descended the air grew thick and hot, until the younglings were analysing the chemical makeup curiously and trotting a little faster.

“Here we are,” Prowl said mildly, and keyed open a door large enough to admit Skyfire with inches to spare.

Inside the bathing facilities were admittedly a little on the rustic side, but the hot springs had been cleared of enough stalagmites that even the largest mech had plenty of space to set their pedes - someone Optimus’ size would have trouble getting into the sloping edges of the cave, but there were storage compartments tucked into the awkwardly-shaped spaces to hold dippers of cleanser, polishes, waxes and an assortment of drying cloths in all shapes, sizes and fabrics, making sure that all the space was used efficiently. The edges of the pool had been shored up and reinforced so that the heaviest frames could ease themselves into the pool and haul themselves out of it again without fracturing the rock, and small lights had been inset into the walls - it was basic, to say the least, but warm and damp and comforting to those who had had chance to accustom themselves to Earth’s vaguaries and had experienced baths on Cybertron.

Jazz splashed in immediately, demonstrating the four broad steps down into the deepest part of the pool. Once there he sank down up to his chin, sighing blissfully. “Cancel my appointments, Miss Moneypenny, or else drag the videophone in here.”

“I am not your secretary, Jazz,” Prowl said flatly, making a much more graceful descent into the steamy water.

“Who’s Miss Moneypenny?” Arcee whispered.

Jazz laughed. “Sorry, Earth-isms. I do that a lot.”

“Jazz is a walking encyclopedia on Earthen popular culture,” Prowl informed them, sitting on the bottom step with a sigh. “So don’t be alarmed when you don’t have a clue what he’s on about.”

“Aww. You know I’m always happy to explain.”

“At length.” Prowl leaned back to let his doorwings soak in the warmth as Jazz spluttered. “Come on, the three of you, in you get.”

“It does look nice,” Arcee admitted, bending to run her hand through the water. “Incredible - it really _is_ warm. Is this Earth’s power?”

“S’ called geothermal energy,” Jazz supplied. “Heat from molten rock below the crust. You won’t find anything like it on Cybertron.”

“No wonder the ‘Cons want this planet,” Springer commented, sloshing carefully past Prowl to where the water was deepest, rippling around his waist. “Hey, Rod, think fast.”

“What-” Hot Rod turned innocently, his instincts not quite trained to sufficient paranoia where Springer was concerned, and caught the splash Springer aimed at him full in the face. “Oh, that’s it!”

“Wait-” was all Prowl managed to get out before Hot Rod’s flying tackle knocked Springer clean over and hit all of them with a tidal wave of steaming hot water.

Long moments later, when the water had settled after the frantic shrieking wrestling match that ensued, Prowl eased himself back mostly-upright and peered cautiously about the room. Arcee, clearly the sensible one of the three, had taken cover at the edge of the room where the rock formations merged into the storage units; Jazz was gargling sulphurous water and still making high-pitched bubbles of laughter from where he had slid almost entirely under the surface, having leaped a few steps up and out of immediate danger. 

Springer, on the other hand, seemed to gradually be realising that the entire room was awash with water where none had been before. He paused, optics resetting, and startled as a fat drop of water landed on his helm from a stalactite; underneath him, Hot Rod flailed and let out a stream of angry bubbles.

“Uh,” Springer managed, meeting Prowl’s steady gaze and abruptly scrunching down, which made Arcee snort.

“Good job, Springer,” she said dryly - the only one in the room able to manage that particular feat at the moment - and the triplechanger’s gaze darted from her, back to Prowl, and then down at a completely submerged and struggling Hot Rod.

“...oops.” He scooted back in haste, reaching through the water and hauling Hot Rod up from the bottom pool - the smaller youngling promptly flailed like an angry cat and splashed him square in the face.

“Enough,” Prowl barked, officer-style. Hot Rod froze, cringing visibly; Springer paused just long enough to point out that he wasn’t doing the same before letting Hot Rod drop. “Opposite ends of the pool, both of you,” Prowl ordered, and after a bit of shuffling and flailing - neither were used to moving through a liquid medium - they managed it. Prowl allowed the others to take charge of Springer - Arcee’s scolding was having more of an effect on him than his would - and went over to see to Hot Rod.

Who was halfway out of the pool and struggling to get his other half out, Autobots being not nearly so buoyant as humans. “In your defense,” he murmured, making Hot Rod jump and slip back down again, “you were provoked.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I’m getting out,” Hot Rod blurted, and Prowl was suddenly, painfully reminded of Bluestreak. He put one hand firmly on Hot Rod’s shoulder to keep him there, reached out with the other to snag a scrubbycloth, and very gently started washing Hot Rod’s helm for him in small, attentive circles.

Hot Rod went still, optics wide; Prowl was on alert for any nonverbal signals that Hot Rod wanted Prowl to stop, but he was mostly getting confusion instead. “You are not in trouble,” Prowl told him firmly, “you have not lost your bathing privileges, and I want this to be a place with relaxing associations for you.”

“Sir…?”

“Tell me if I’m being too firm.” Prowl gestured for him to turn around.

“...nuh-uh.” Hot Rod obeyed, resting his folded arms on the edge of the pool, and allowed Prowl to scrub his spoiler until it shone from edge to edge. Prowl smiled to himself, and told Jazz firmly over the comms that if he heard _one giggle,_ Jazz was sleeping on the sofa.

*

As expected, Jazz was very little help when it came to actually getting anyone clean, but he worked wonders for coaxing the younglings to get comfortable in the water - after Arcee had finished Springer’s dressing-down, Prowl had introduced Hot Rod to three different types of cleanser and both mechs were ready to interact calmly again, the mood was much more cheerful.

“Isn’t there going to be another procession?” Arcee asked, watching avidly as Hot Rod carefully scrubbed down one arm. “Everyone was saying a few different things about the last part of the Treks.”

Jazz hummed, visor dim as Prowl worked his way over his partner’s back with another cloth and plenty of bubbles. “Mmm-hmm~ ‘S gonna be more like one big party this time. Th’Trek of the Homeless was all for contemplatin’ an’ rememberin’, an’ grief if that’s what y’needed - this one’s more...”

He trailed off, unable to quite make the connections between the words he needed while Prowl was scrubbing his back, so Prowl chuckled softly and stepped in. “More a - celebration of sparks we have loved, and when sparks who love us are able to make the journey from the Well to visit us.”

Hot Rod’s nose wrinkled as he mulled that over, and Springer looked dubious.

“Not that I wanna knock what people believe,” he said carefully, “but isn’t that what the Trek of the Homeless was for? Cursed- uh, wandering sparks?”

“Kup never mentioned anything about sparks coming _out_ of the Well that I remember,” Arcee agreed.

Jazz made another, less content-sounding noise and shifted in the water; Prowl smoothed his hands over Jazz’s plating and he quieted.

“It’s not quite the same,” Prowl said softly. “The Trek of the Homeless is to gather and guide those sparks who never made it to the Well, who were lost along the way and needed a light to guide them to a home they missed out on. The Trek of the Awoken is for any sparks who have unfinished business with the people they left behind - then the crystal torches are to guide them to us, so they can pass on what they need to in order to rest peacefully in the Well.”

“Sounds spooky,” Hot Rod complained. “I mean - not that I’m scared of dead guys or anything.”

“I can’t think of anyone who might have unfinished business with us,” Arcee frowned.

Springer snorted. “I can, but they’re all ‘Cons with a grudge.”

Jazz glanced carefully at Prowl. “Well… that’s what the seer’s for. The Awoken sparks - well, the idea is you spend some time in the Well, things like resentment an’ pain get dealt with in there, so you don’t take it with you if you wind up reincarnatin’. But the seer’s supposed to act as a filter. If your intentions are honorable, he’ll guide and help you getting in contact with your loved ones. If they ain’t, he’ll guide you back to the Well.”

Prowl knew Jazz was waiting for him to confirm. “Praxus’s traditions were similar to Jazz’s experiences in Uraya and Polyhex,” he added smoothly, and felt Jazz tense in - possibly frustration, most likely with himself. “The priests with a sensitivity for it acted as true seers, either in the Enforcer stations or moving about the city. But in many of the city-states the concept of the Awoken essentially boiled down to fortune-telling games, with mechs dressed up as seers telling people about the tall, dark strangers they were soon to meet.”

“Are you going to be doing that?” Arcee asked as Hot Rod looked intrigued despite himself.

Prowl shrugged easily. “I might have to, given the mechs who first volunteered.”

* 

As it happened, Sideswipe had volunteered to act as seer for the Trek of the Awoken but promptly changed his mind after seeing Prowl in his psychopomp costume. He figured that it would be far more fun to have the solemn, impressive, looks-like-the-real-deal Second in Command giving out ghoulish scares and-or gossip-laden fortunes than to do it himself - to his amazed delight, Prowl mulled the thought over and agreed perfectly calmly without any protest. (Prowl didn’t feel the need to point out that nobody was entirely comfortable with the idea of Sideswipe as the seer, aside from the Ark’s resident pranking corps.)

“No way, really?” Sideswipe blurted, sheer glee overriding his vocal filter. _“Awesome._ That’s great, Prowl, seriously! If you want some cue cards for fortunes and stuff, I’ve got a stack half done already and Sunny’s gonna help out making up a tent-thing for people to come to you...”

“A tent?” Prowl repeated rather dubiously, not at all sure about that part, but Sideswipe was already nodding with boundless enthusiasm.

“Sure! Then people can come see you instead, and it’s all...ambiance, y’know. How else are you gonna scare anyone?”

“I wasn’t planning on scaring anyone at all.” Prowl frowned as Sideswipe visibly deflated. “That’s not what this part of the Trek is about.”

“Awwww, Prowl, c’mon! It totally is! Look, promise me you’ll give someone - one single person, all right? - a really good scare, and I’ll hold off the pranks for a while.”

Prowl mulled the offer over, optics narrowed and fixing Sideswipe with a considering Look. 

“One person, one scare, and one month of good behaviour,” he offered.

Sideswipe’s eager agreement secured, and reassured that the role of the seer would not be taken by someone actively trying to terrify everyone in audial-shot, Prowl joined the work of preparing for the Trek of the Awoken. Spike, once the broad outlines were painted in for him, compared it to a festival as compared to the more formal observances of the Trek of the Homeless. “Inasmuch as it is a celebration of those who have gone before,” Optimus allowed, “the comparison is apt. It is often seen as a time of strengthening bonds between cohort, friends, and community.”

“That explains why Sideswipe’s building a Dunk The Prime booth.”

“...he’s what.”

Spike’s eyes went wide and ever so innocent. “Oh, did he not tell you?”

Optimus sighed deeply and stalked out of the Ark to confront the Autobot’s chief miscreant, leaving Spike to marinate in smugness. Prowl, working out the duty schedule for Trek day, sent a memory capture of the conversation to Jazz and smiled to himself. The Trek of the Homeless may have required the most large-scale architectural work, but the Trek of the Awoken had inspired a flurry of smaller projects that kept the Autobots working hard right up until the hour they had agreed on for the Trek itself - Sunstreaker had, somewhat grudgingly, created a deep blue-purple sideshow booth out of what looked like dyed circus-top canvas to Sideswipe’s specifications; Jazz had cobbled together a long, wide table to hold what he was gleefully referring to as ‘goodie mountain’, and there was indeed a Dunk the Prime stall amongst other games that various Autobots were tinkering with right up to the last possible moment.

Prowl, not wanting to sit in the confines of the tent until he felt he had to, spent the time before the Trek cleansing himself in the washrack - without Jazz’s help, his partner busily setting up and holding the other Autobots away from his goodies - and carefully fitting the white lenses Ratchet had given him for the first Trek. He could blaze with the light of Primus like a beacon for any sparks following the course of the Trek, but the enframed Autobots wouldn’t see a thing and would wonder why he wasn’t painted up this time around. And, truth be told, he _wanted_ to wear his markings where all could see, even if he did have to figure out how to paint them himself without the thinning of the veil to make them clear.

The false lenses took him a few tries to perfect, but eventually he could reset his optics and see clearly in the mirror; the ceremonial glyphs were another matter, but at least he could take his time and paint over what was already there, at least to his own optics. The other Praxians had waved off any offers of adding to their own paint, instead opting to go the less-formal route of painting their cheeks and palms with the glyphs for welcome and acceptance, love and unity. Bluestreak had hesitated, thought it over, and decided to do the same, though he’d looked relieved and grateful when Prowl had simply nodded at his choice. Most of the Autobots were doing something similar, though the full effect for the different mechs and city-states’ choices would no doubt be both varied and startling...

Huffing through his vents, Prowl called his wandering thoughts back to order; he let his own power roll out from his spark and through his frame, markings burning clear and optics glowing white through the false lenses, and set about carefully and delicately painting in what markings he could reach. Hopefully Jazz would be there soon and wouldn’t mind helping with his back.


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Trek of the Awoken begins...

“This is the third and final phase to the Autobots’ festival cycle honoring fallen sparks: the Trek of the Awoken. Unlike the Trek of the Homeless, which depicts a journey into the Well of All Sparks, this one is about friends and loved ones returning from the Well to visit-”

“Photoboooomb!”

Spike flailed Air Raid and Slingshot out of the frame. “Get outta here, I’m trying to do an educational program!” The troublemakers fled, laughing and making ‘ooh, watch out for the Sparkeater Slayer!’ noises; Spike shook his head and chuckled.

“As you can see,” he told the camera, “it’s a party atmosphere at the Ark today.”

He beckoned, and Roller obediently trundled after him, the camera steady on its tripod frame on his back. “The heart of the Trek of the Awoken is here,” he explained, pausing by a deep indigo tarpaulin tent painted over with sacred equations. “The seer’s tent. Outwardly it resembles a fortune-teller’s booth on Earth, but - should they ask for it - a seer is capable of giving clients far more than a simple ‘you will meet a tall dark stranger.’ “

He pulled the flap aside enough for Roller to enter, then entered after him. “Hi, Prowl. Got a minute?”

Prowl turned at his voice, making sure his long robes didn’t flare out too far and knock Spike or his camera sideways. “Of course, Spike. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I’d like to get a decent shot of your paint and your outfit, if you don’t mind. There wasn’t much of you in the footage I got for the Trek of the Homeless, and since you’re one of the main players today...” Spike trailed off hopefully, and grinned when Prowl smiled at him.

“Of course.” The Praxian held out his arms and executed a slow turn, tilting his helm and his doors so that Spike - and Roller - could see his markings clearly. His heavy pauldrons and over-robe had been set aside after the Trek of the Homeless; his seer’s costume seemed to be made up of a long, filmy waistcoat that brushed the floor and billowed out when he moved, and a heavier poncho that hid his Autobot symbol without covering up the glyphs spiralling down over his paint. The collar folded loosely around Prowl’s shoulders and suggested that there was a hood in all the folds if he wanted to hide his face. Tiny crystals and scraps of thin metal had been attached to the heavier poncho, and Prowl explained those were for any sparks who didn’t want to hear any messages, but whose visitors couldn’t rest without passing on what they had to say. “I would apologise for being a little hard to catch in the earlier Trek,” he added, “but that is something of the point.”

Not to mention he’d only belatedly realised that Spike’s camera wouldn’t have picked up his optics and markings, thanks to them not actually being paint at all...

Spike waved his words away regardless with an easy smile. “No worries; it’s more natural if you guys forget I’m taping this, after all. Although now you come to mention it, would you mind telling our viewers just what you’re going to be doing as seer tonight?”

“Not at all.” Prowl knelt to offer a hand to Spike and Roller both, and lifted them up onto the small repurposed table when the human accepted. He sat at one of the tent’s chairs - he would have insisted on those, even if Sideswipe hadn’t been intent on turning this into a carnival sideshow, just in case someone wobbled - and propped his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together. There were additional glyphs added to the ones he’d worn on the Trek of the Homeless, painted high on his cheeks and a broad pale stripe bisecting his lower lip matching dramatic white streaks over and under his optics, making them look enormous in the dim light.

“My role as seer is chiefly that of a door-warden. Should any sparks make the journey from the Well to visit the enframed sparks they once lived alongside, it is my responsibility to pass along any messages the enframed are willing to hear.”

Spike tried not to glance at the camera as he mulled that over. “How many of the Autobots do you think will ask for a message?”

Prowl shrugged carefully. “Most of them will likely stop by at some point, but it’s hard to predict who will ask for a true message and who will only ask for a story or a blessing. And of course, not everyone who asks will have a message. The Trek from the Well to the world of the enframed and back is a long one, and not all sparks have business with the living.”

Spike nodded. As much as this sounded like a ghost story to him, he knew this was more than mere superstition to the Autobots. The Well of All Sparks could not be directly observed, but free-floating spark energy was a documented phenomenon - as were, apparently, monsters who fed on it. The kind-mannered mech in front of him had recently killed one.

“Can anyone pass along messages from wandering sparks?” he asked. “I know you were a priest before the war. Do you have some kind of onboard equipment?”

Prowl smiled. “No. I just use my instincts. Ah, my first client’s here.” He lifted his helm as light from the outside spilled into the tent. “Spike, I apologize, but we’ll need privacy for this.”

“Sure.” Spike accepted Prowl’s help getting to the floor again. “C’mon, Roller. Hey, Ironhide,” he added to the mech who’d just ducked in.

“Evenin’, Spike,” Ironhide replied. “Roller. You ready ta go, Prowl? Say the word if y’ain’t.”

“You’re right on time, Ironhide. Please, take a seat.” 

The last thing Spike saw as he ducked out under the heavy curtain was Ironhide settling himself into the spare chair, Prowl’s unsettling white optics glowing in the dim light.

*

Spike was right in that the atmosphere of the Trek of the Awoken was more like that of a festival than the previous observances; whether or not they would be visited by returned sparks, this was a celebration of joy and hope, and Optimus Prime felt his own spark lightening as he looked out over his Autobots’ hard work.

There was indeed a Dunk the Prime stall, though after he’d been tipped off as to its existence Sideswipe had sworn up and down that the plan was to have various officers trading shifts to be dunked - much to Optimus’ amusement Ratchet and Ironhide had managed to goad each other into it, and sure enough when he passed Ratchet was needling Sideswipe to the point of incoherent laughter, as well as terrible aim. As Sideswipe actually dropped his final ball into the plunge pool the medic glanced over, caught Optimus’ gaze and gave him a smug little wink.

Optimus had had to muffle his snickers in pretending to pay very close attention to Bumblebee’s game - finding twelve tiny motorised bee drones scattered about the Ark and marking their position on a map, which had to be submitted before the end of the night’s observances. There was no prize, as far as Optimus was aware, but he’d already seen Bluestreak and Hot Rod industriously trotting past with their heads together and Arcee accepting a datapad of her own right behind them. It delighted him that the Cybertron team were integrating so well - Kup had already joined forces with Ironhide and Ratchet, though he hadn’t volunteered (or been manoeuvred into) the dunking roster. Magnus was finding it a little harder to adjust, after so much stress and privation, but Optimus had every hope that integrating into a capable and effective command structure would ease his worries.

He meandered through the festival space, making a point to stop at every stall and speak to the mechs there - sampling delicacies on Jazz’s goodie mountain led him on to a large table that hadn’t been there the last time he’d walked through and set-up was still in progress, so he ambled over. Sideswipe was hovering over some kind of large, faintly-glowing construction...

Optimus moved closer, and the perspective suddenly snapped into place - Sideswipe had somehow managed to create delicate, crystalline models from some kind of energon _sugar panels,_ and each model was from a different city-state. His optics darted over tiny, perfect replicas of the Praxian Temple to Primus, the Iacon Hall of Records...

“These are wonderful,” he said thickly, emotion causing static to build in his vocaliser. “You’ve truly outdone yourself, Sideswipe.”

The frontliner shifted his weight and gave Optimus a slightly sheepish, harried grin. “Awww, thanks. ...honestly I don’t know whether I wanna let people eat ‘em after the fact or not, but it’s driving me crazy making sure they’re still all in one piece.”

“I can imagine.” Optimus made sure there was a respectable barrier of empty air between himself and the table the sculptures were on. “Would you mind allowing Spike close enough for some shots of these? If he were in the shot as well, it would impart a sense of scale for the viewers.”

“Sure, I don’t mind. As long as he doesn’t mind me hovering like-” Sideswipe visibly groped for a metaphor. “Like you after Carly told us she was incubating a human-sparkling.”

Optimus blinked. “I beg your pardon, I was not _hovering.”_

He realized almost immediately that he shouldn’t have protested. Sideswipe was _grinning_ at him, that ‘I’ve found something to yank your chain about’ grin that everyone on the Ark was familiar with. “You so were. You were following her around like a big clanky duckling.”

“I was ensuring her safety.”

“Right, because incubating makes human females lose all sense of self-preservation.”

“And I wanted to know more about her condition.”

“Like how long ‘til you get to make boojy-boojy noises at the tinybit.”

_“Sideswipe,”_ Optimus grumbled, and Sideswipe laughed affectionately.

“All right, all right. But when the bit’s decanted I totally called it.”

“See if I save you from the Sparkeater Slayer again,” Optimus snarked, and was rewarded with a brief respite as Sideswipe winced and mock-cowered.

“That’s just cruel, boss-bot. Fine, fine, I can take a hint. Go shoo already, see if you can break that test-your-strength thing Brawn set up. I’ve already got dibs on a round of Whack-a-Thing when I’m done here.”

That was admittedly enough to arouse the Prime’s curiosity, and after bidding Sideswipe a temporary farewell - and after another lingering look over the table of goodies - he ambled over to inspect the games of strength Brawn had put together.

One was a tower easily half Optimus’ height again with a sturdy pressure-sensor at its base; as Optimus approached Sunstreaker was swinging up a- Was that a replica of Solus Prime’s hammer? It certainly seemed heavy enough to tip the frontliner backwards when it reached its apex, and graceful as Sunstreaker was, he wobbled when he swung. It didn’t have much of an effect on his score - a light blazed respectably high up on the tower and a cheery bingle-bingle tone played, but Sunstreaker scowled and hefted the hammer again. His second attempt sent it a little higher, but he was still clearly dissatisfied as Brawn smirked.

“Hey, Optimus, see what you can do with this.” Sunstreaker shoved the hammer into Optimus’ grip, and the Prime chuckled.

“Very well. Am I playing for a prize, or for my honour?”

“See what you get, if you can light up the top of the chart,” Brawn replied with a faintly worrying grin; Optimus considered the potential fallout, deemed it ‘potentially funny and good for morale, particularly his own’ and set his pedes. 

“Very well,” he replied, swinging the hammer once, twice to gauge its heft - then slammed it down onto the pressure sensor with all his strength.

_Bingle-bingle,_ went Brawn’s machine - close, but no cygar. “Hmph,” Optimus commented, glaring suspiciously at the hammer at his hands.

“Give it one more whack, Prime!” Cliffjumper called from the sidelines.

“Yeah, wipe that smirk off Brawn’s face.” Warpath, shamelessly joining in the egging-on.

Optimus glanced at Sunstreaker; the yellow twin shrugged and waved him on. Brawn was still grinning as Optimus lifted the hammer once more.

It may have been the occasion putting fanciful thoughts in his head, but this time as Optimus swung down with all his might he thought he felt the hands of Solus Prime swinging with him. The hammer hit the sensor panel with a boom like the sound barrier being broken, lancing across his sensors and thundering up the metal of his arms.

A loud siren blared to life atop the tower, accompanied by a soft _fwoompf,_ and Optimus found himself standing in a settling cloud of silver glitter. “Brawn…!”

“Weeee’ve got a winner,” Brawn caroled dutifully, and hopped down to offer Optimus his prize: a small scrap of paper. “Good for one free car wash at the Wash ‘n Go Deluxe,” he announced, “and you’re gonna need it.”

Optimus made a show of brushing some of the glitter off. “Yes, clearly this is what the humans call a ‘Pyrrhic victory’.”

_I thought that was rather fun,_ the shade of Solus Prime said with no small amount of satisfaction. _Perhaps I should lend my aid with the game of smiting enemies as well._

_Don’t you dare,_ another Prime-spark grumbled as he drifted past. _The dratted thing would wind up in pieces and the youngling would only feel bad for breaking it._

_Ah, well._ Hands on hips, the elder Prime surveyed the bustling group of contented Autobots with a smile lingering about her optics. The Primes in the Matrix might not have the same limitations on contact with the Bearer as other sparks did in the Well, but that didn’t mean they weren’t going to turn down the chance to stretch their legs a little outside of it for a change.

_I think,_ she said determinedly, _I shall visit the energon-crystal models of Sideswipe. Then perhaps attend the energon offering._

There had been less discussion on what would be appropriate for the Trek of the Awoken - one thing everyone had agreed on was the offering of energon for weary sparks who had made the long journey from the Well. Free-floating sparks might not have the same needs as enframed mechs, but that didn’t mean old habits didn’t hold true - and besides, it was polite to provide energon in its simplest form for those who made the effort to attend and might want the extra energy. The Autobots’ group effort at building a little dais for the offering to sit on was simple, merely a raised platform at the head of the room, but it was painted with the glyphs for welcome and acceptance, hospitality and offering. The cubes had been arranged in a circle so that visiting sparks had some space to manoeuvre, and if any of the more skeptical Autobots noticed by the end of the night that the level of the cubes had dropped - well, plausible deniability meant there were plenty of sensible reasons they could tell each other for why that might be.

***

Optimus felt it when Solus drifted off to enjoy the festival. One by one the other active Primes followed, wandering off to partake of the offerings or watch the games; enough Prime-sparks still slept within the Matrix that its power wasn’t appreciably dimmed, but now at least he had a bit of privacy on what was turning out to be a busy evening. Ratchet _had_ put his foot down on Optimus relaxing and enjoying himself rather than working today.

....somehow Optimus didn’t think the medic would be happy about the glitter.

By the amused look in his white optics as Optimus entered his domain, it seemed Prowl had the same thought. “Welcome, Optimus,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“A reading,” Optimus asked. “A true one.”

Prowl’s doors perked. “...I was hoping you would say that,” he admitted. “You do have a visitor tonight.” He tilted his helm as Optimus tried not to show any outward sign of nervousness. “He says his name is Dion.”

Optimus’ vents caught; for a split second every system in his frame seemed to stall, the world going into freefall around him before his fuel pump re-engaged. “Dion?” he said faintly, and was dimly aware of Prowl leaving his chair and push-tugging him down into the tent’s extra chair. “Is he...?”

“He is here,” Prowl said softly, white optics concerned. “If you wish to speak to him, he has a message for you.”

“Yes,” blurted out before Optimus could even pretend to censor himself. “Yes, always, anything he has to say I will gladly hear. ...please.”

Prowl smiled sadly, then tilted his helm as if to a mech only a little taller than himself. After a brief pause, Prowl’s focus shifted, and he gave Optimus a gentle smile. “He misses you, but he’s unbelievably proud of you and how far you’ve come since the docks. And he doesn’t blame you, for any of it. ...and he’s asking if you could say the same to Ariel.”

Hot air shuddered from Optimus’ vents, grief a knot stopping his vocaliser and filling it with static when it reset. “Dion...of course, my friend. Anything.” Hesitating, Optimus turned his hand palm-upward and held it out, fingers curling; perhaps it was the significance of the night, perhaps it was Prowl’s kind optics watching him, but his pumps stalled as a ghost of a sensor reading curled a smaller hand to interlink with his and tug, a dock chain of crane hooks pulling each other up.

Prowl watched as Optimus stood, his form trembling faintly in the dim light. The ghostly mech holding his hand smiled briefly, sorrow and pride mingling in his sparkmatter. _Be well, Orion,_ he said, his voice more light than sound to Prowl’s sensors. _Take care of your family. And let them take care of you. We will meet again, in the Well, and you can tell me about all of your adventures._

“I will, I promise,” Optimus answered when Prowl relayed the message. “I miss you so much, Dion. Thank you for coming to see me. Hearing your words eases my spark.”

_I’m glad._ Dion chuckled. _Though I know you’ve never lacked for courage._ Dion’s form rose into the air, far enough that he could wrap his arms around Optimus’s shoulders in an insubstantial hug. _Go on, Orion, go play. Show these youngsters how Whack-a-Thing is played._

He kept rising, but only when Optimus laughed softly did he fade out of sight completely. “He is gone,” Prowl reported gently. “If you need a moment…”

Optimus Prime pressed a hand to his optics, vents sighing heavily. “Just a moment,” he admitted. “Dion is right. I should spend this Trek with my family.”

Prowl smiled softly as Optimus sat down again, and placed his hand on his friend’s.

*

One bonus of the ridiculous tent-thing that Sideswipe had dreamed up was that it gave privacy to those who needed time to collect themselves after meeting with their visitors. Prowl stayed with Optimus until he could smile again, helping him to his pedes and sending him back out to enjoy the rest of the games with the others. Prowl also needed a moment himself after that, letting out a sigh and shutting off his optics.

_Do you need a break?_ one of the visiting sparks asked, a tough old warrior who had mentored Ironhide long ago. _There’s a good few more of ‘em looking this contraption over like they wanna try their luck._

Prowl shook his helm gently, giving her a wry smile. “Thank you, but I should be fine. I feel guilty enough for not making it to Cybertron as well as Earth tonight.”

Beta huffed her opinion of that remark, but before she could elaborate the curtain rustled and Jazz poked his helm in, beaming cheerily. “Hey gorgeous! Thought I’d check in with a goodie break, if y’ain’t busy.”

Prowl gave Beta a sidelong glance; she cackled and waved him off, then disappeared through the canvas wall. _Get some energy into you. With that one chasing your aft, you’ll need it!_

“No,” Prowl murmured, giving Jazz a warm, bright smile that made his partner light up. “I’m all yours.”

“Lucky me,” Jazz grinned, and let the tent flap fall closed again behind him. “Considerin’ I just stuck a sign sayin’ you’re on your lunch break an’ not to disturb.”

“How fortunate,” Prowl deadpanned, and was rewarded with a laugh and a plate of goodies waggled invitingly under his nose.

He ate steadily while Jazz regaled him with stories of what he’d missed being in the tent - including just how Optimus had gotten covered in glitter. Bluestreak and Hot Rod had found all of Bumblebee’s hidden bees - the two of them were getting along famously, which could only be good for both of them; Ironhide was the mech to beat at the Whack-a-Thing game; Hound was playing a few old recordings of dance performances he’d kept, and Mirage was last seen teaching Arcee the steps. Even Magnus had been induced to make a brief appearance, though Jazz bragged it was the lure of his goodies that had pried him out of his borrowed office.

“Big guy got him addicted while we were sparkeater-hunting on Cybertron,” he said proudly, stealing one of those selfsame goodies for himself. “It was like, Magnus was trying to talk business and strategy and all that, and every time he opened his mouth - goodie.” Jazz mimed the action with the goodie in his hand, and Prowl chuckled.

“It’s about time Optimus got someone his own size to mother-hen,” he commented.

“I dunno, he’s pretty cute with the lilbits too. Oh man, when Carly’s lil eight-bit is born he’s gonna be impossible, you realize. We won’t have a leader, we’ll have a burbling puddle on the floor.”

“As if you won’t be,” Prowl pointed out tartly, and Jazz laughed and conceded the point. “Well, we have two weeks to put contingency plans in place in the event of officer puddles. It’s not an immediate concern.”

“No, I suppose not.” Jazz shrugged. “So, how’s the seer business?”

“Going well. We might need to keep an optic on Optimus for a while, but I think he needed to hear that.” Prowl’s gaze wandered, as though he could look through the tent wall to check up on Optimus from there, and it occurred to Jazz that for all he knew, Prowl really could.

“You get a lot of people with real, actual sparks come visitin’?” he asked, suddenly curious; there were more questions than he had time in the day for, and more popping up every time he thought about it.

Which was a lot, because - well, this was his Prowler. And Jazz was the nosy sort with a healthy streak of Curious.

“Of course. This is a holiday for them, just as it was when they were enframed.” Prowl picked out another goodie, turned it over in his fingers as though considering where to bite into it. “Did you consider asking for a true reading?” he asked, deliberately casual, and Jazz loved him all over again for trying to keep any pressure out of his tone. “You don’t have to.”

“Huh.” Fingers tapping lightly on the table, Jazz shifted back in his seat and really, seriously considered it. “...ah, what the heck. Of all the people that ain’t doin’ it for a quick credit, it’d be you.” He flashed Prowl a grin, and caught a brief flicker of something very like _relief_ in his partner’s optics. _What in the galaxy...?_

“I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?” Prowl said dryly, but there was a smile in his voice.

“Sure thing, gorgeous! If there’s somebody followin’ me around, I wanna know.”

“...there is, actually.” 

Jazz hadn’t entirely expected that, for all he’d told himself he was braced and ready to handle this as something perfectly normal; his spark fluttered wildly in his chest before he could get it under control.

“Welp,” he said cheerily, and didn’t know quite what to make of Prowl’s concerned expression. “Better not keep ‘em waiting, then. Go on, Prowler, gimme the whole shebang.”

Prowl’s optics squinched like he was trying not to reset them, and even with the white lenses - and they were really lenses this time, Jazz could see them and that was _another_ raft of questions bubbling up - that was adorable. 

“All right,” Prowl said softly, but he wasn’t looking at Jazz this time. He held out a hand, and to Jazz it seemed as though no-one was there - but from Prowl’s perspective the visiting spark reached out and took it, the contact with a free-floating spark sending a reaction washing up Prowl’s arm and over his plating that set his glyph-markings and optics blazing. Jazz winced away from the sudden light, startled and staring, but his hands clutched tight to the chair for an anchor when the wave of light wrapped around Prowl and reflected back _down_ his arm, sparkled over his wrist and lit up previously-invisible fingers, a white hand holding on to Prowl’s as the wash of light and colour travelled up the visiting spark’s arm...

_Hey, Jazz,_ Ricochet said with a lopsided grin.

Everything that Jazz had built up around himself - the smooth self-assurance, the deadly skill, the relentless joy - crumbled in an instant, and he was a youngling again, trembling with his hands over his mouth. “Ric,” he croaked.

_Don’t go to pieces on me now, bro,_ Ricochet told him kindly, reaching out his free hand. _I’ve come a long way to be here._

“Why - how -” 

_You know the answer to that. Turns out all those sparkling-stories weren’t just stories after all. Who knew, huh?_ Ricochet shrugged. _I was pretty shocked myself._

“But-” Jazz reset his vocalizer. “I dunno what to say.” 

_Well, that’s a first._

The tease forced a laugh out of Jazz, something behind his visor glinting brightly. “Slag, this ain’t even - I mean, I’m gettin’ logic errors just lookin’ at you, but - this ain’t a sendup. Most of the ‘Bots don’t even know I have a twin.” He lifted his helm. “Did it - I mean, did you suffer much, when you…?” 

_No,_ Ricochet answered, and Prowl thought he was being kind again. _It was quick._

“That - I guess that’s something. ...woah. Y’know I never figured anybody’d turn up for me if I took this kinda thing seriously.” 

_Shows what you know,_ Ricochet said, poking Jazz’s helm lightly with his forefinger. _Mister Popularity over here, and he doesn’t think anyone’d come visit when you’re finally_ awake _for a Trek._

“Hey, hey, it ain’t like we decided to- ....what?” Jazz faltered, visor glittering too-bright and unconsciously tilting towards Ricochet’s touch. 

The shade of his twin only grinned, tilting his head. _Never mind for now, I gotcha to myself for a bit. ...well, outside of your partner over here. No worries, we already had The Talk._

“What ta- aw, mech, no.” 

_Whaaat? Someone had ta do it, I just got here first. Twin’s prerogative._

“I swear, if y’weren’t disenframed or whatever I’d thwap ya one, Ric. .....’s really, really good t’see you again.” 

_It’s good to see you too._ Ric grinned. _You’re lookin’ good. Slag, look at you - ace saboteur, friend of the Prime, hot boyfriend? Who woulda guessed you’d come so far?_

“Not me,” Jazz admitted, “but it’s been a long road. Woulda been easier with you there.” 

_Woulda been more fun with me there, I dunno about easier._ Ric nudged him gently; Jazz’s vents hitched when his brother’s image passed through his plating. _Proud of you, bro. Really am._

Jazz tried to form a smile for him. “You’re not mad at me? If I’d been with you-” 

_You know, they told me survivor’s guilt was a Thing among the enframed._ Ricochet mimed a thwap over Jazz’s helm. _Of course I’m not mad, you wingnut. If you’d been with me you woulda died too, and then where would the Autobots be? Quit feeling guilty for surviving._ Keep _surviving, no matter what. Promise me._

“I promise.” Jazz ran a hand under his visor; when he looked up, his smile was genuine. “Thanks, bro. I love you.” 

_Heh. Love you too, Jazz._ Ricochet glanced to the side. _Oh, there’s a couple more people here to see you, I think they’re gonna tackle me if I don’t let them talk._

“What-” Jazz’s jaw dropped as the light expanded outward from Ricochet, outlining the shades of three, five, six - Jazz lost count as the tent seemed to fill with ghosts, grinning eagerly at him and waving. Each one lit up a pathway to a name and a set of memories Jazz had archived long ago - his old bandmates, dancers and bartenders at his club. Jazz covered his mouth again, squeaky noises issuing from his vocalizers. 

_Hey Jazz!_

_Jazz, we miss you-_

_-can’t believe everything that’s happened, we’re-_

_-so proud of you, everybody is-_

_-don’t forget about us, okay?_

“As if I could,” Jazz managed, voice drowning in static. “All you guys - I miss you too, y’don’t even know.” 

_Don’t forget all the fun we had,_ a tiny flier piped up, jumping up and down and waving a ghostly lightharp enthusiastically. _You go working and worrying too hard, then what’ll we do?_

_Aah, don’t worry. He’s a smart lad, he’ll do just fine._ The stocky grounder next to him nudged the little flier with a hip, grinning up at Jazz and giving him a lazy wave - _you always were the lucky one. Just keep on being lucky! I don’t wanna see you turning up for rehearsals for a good long time, hear?_

“I hear,” came out almost inaudibly; Jazz coughed static and tried again, tears running freely from under his visor and past the helpless smile. “I hear. I promise - promise all of you.” 

_Promise you’ll try and play more too,_ another grounder called out; tall and leggy, one of the cluster of dancers beaming back at him. _Don’t forget that!_

Jazz chuckled faintly. “If I can get my hands on any instruments…” 

_Make some of your own!_ urged the leggy dancer. _I bet everyone would like that. Ooh, you could play music for those little-spark-things-_

“Humans,” Jazz laughed. “They’re called humans.” 

_Ohhh. ….why?_

Laughter rippled over the assemblage of ghosts, those nearest the dancer nudging him playfully. _We should quit hogging the seer,_ Ricochet told them regretfully. _There’s others waiting to pass messages along._ He bent over his openly-tearful brother, brushing ghostly lips over his forehelm. _Not alone, brother,_ he murmured. _Never alone._

“I know,” Jazz whispered. “Thank you. All y’all. ...love y’all.”

With a last ripple of whispers - _love, proud of you, be lucky, practice!_ \- the ghosts faded from his sight, one by one, until only Ricochet was left. Smiling faintly, he stepped back from Prowl and faded too.

Jazz gazed dazedly into the darkness where Ric had been, face still damp. “Do you need a moment?” Prowl asked softly.

Jazz’s vents hitched, and he flung himself into Prowl’s arms.

*

It took a long time for Jazz to cry himself out. All Prowl could do was hold him, wrap him up safe in his arms and croon softly, rocking them both after he’d half-sat, half-fallen backwards into Jazz’s chair. Eventually the wild burst of tears ran down and Jazz gradually quieted, fingers curling into Prowl’s robes and his nose tucked into Prowl’s collar faring.

“They came all that way just t’come see me,” he mumbled, his voice crackling with strain. Prowl hummed confirmation, squeezing him gently, and felt Jazz’s whole frame hitch again.

“Of course they did,” he replied softly. “They all love you. And as Ricochet said, this is the first time the Earth team has been functional for a Trek in a very long time.”

Jazz’s fingers worked restlessly in the fabric for a long moment without speaking. Eventually a small, guilty whisper made it out. “...I never went ta one o’the Trek acknowledgements durin’ the war. Not th’serious ones, when it was just startin’ to get bad.”

“I heard Ricochet too, remember,” Prowl murmured back. “ _Survivor’s guilt was a Thing among the enframed_. If anyone could understand, it would be those who had already gone to the Well - they wouldn’t blame you, or want you to feel guilty. And everyone deals differently with loss.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’d know outta anyone.” Jazz sat up a little, still leaning against Prowl but giving him a faint, wobbly smile. “Thanks, Prowler. Just - fer everythin’.”

Prowl leaned up and brushed a kiss of his own to Jazz’s chin, their bumpers and his robes making anything else difficult. It made Jazz chuckle regardless, and that counted for much. “You’re always welcome, love. Even if I wasn’t the seer tonight, I would still have listened. ...it means a lot to me, being able to hold you when you’re sad.”

“No one I’d rather hold me,” Jazz admitted, taking Prowl’s hand to thread their fingers together. “You’re my tower, Prowler. Not even kiddin’.”

“And you are my beacon.” Prowl held Jazz’s hand to his chest, over his spark. “Half my spark.”

“Better half of mine.”

Prowl tapped Jazz’s nose reprovingly. “Equal halves. No arguing.”

“Heh. Yes, Prowl.” Jazz leaned in, nuzzled Prowl’s jaw briefly. “I’d better clear out. Bet there’s a line a mile long outside the tent.”

“Surely not,” Prowl demurred. “Go on, enjoy yourself, Jazz.”

“Okay.” Jazz stood. “You come out and enjoy the rest of the party too, huh? Can’t wait another eight years for Trek time to come around again.”

“Don’t worry about me, Jazz.” Prowl shooed Jazz out, smiling contentedly. “I have no complaints about my evening.”

*

It wasn’t quite a mile long, but there were a few less emotionally-taxing requests that Prowl worked his way through comparatively easily, at least compared to Jazz and Optimus’ visits. Springer came in, mostly to see what it was like inside, Prowl was sure - the young mech was dubious about actually asking for a message, but when asked what else a seer offered he pounced on the idea of a story. Mirage came soft-footing it through the party to ask for a blessing which Prowl gave gladly; Cliffjumper, shortly after, asking for the same. Prowl doubted somehow that either one would be amused if they were told of their similarities. He really had worked as a priest after his own enframing; as unexpected as it had been back then, he knew the ritual forms and knew how comforting mechs found them. And, well, aside from Optimus - who was strictly off-duty - he was the only other candidate for a religious Cybertronian personage.

After Cliffjumper came Bumblebee, and he received a blessing and a fond message from an old friend that left him warm and smiling for the rest of the night; when asked, the minibot reported no-one else waiting outside the tent, and Prowl took his chance to take a break. Stepping outside the tent he was briefly distracted by the trail of glitter someone had apparently tracked all through the main room, and then by the - now somewhat dented - goodie mountain Jazz had constructed. He let the curtain fall closed again, then the sign Jazz had put up for him earlier caught his optic. Once carefully re-applied to his little tent’s entryway, Prowl set out to wander his way through the stalls and amusements and the Autobots enthusiastically playing along, enframed or otherwise.

“Scared the bolts outta anyone yet, Prowl?” Sideswipe caroled; Prowl diverted to admire his sweet-crystal masterpieces and to (hopefully) prevent anyone who might be nervous about receiving any messages from getting the wrong idea.

“No, thankfully,” he replied - although he had his own ideas of just how he was going to manage that before the night was over. “Although you look a little frazzled yourself. Have you really been watching over these all evening?”

“Ehh...not the _whole_ evening. I’m just - really proud of these, y’know?” The frontliner shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I don’t wanna see them get broken. I know it’s dumb.”

“Not at all,” Prowl said gently. “...if you wanted, we could always check with Perceptor and see if he had anything from his Corrostop experiments that might preserve them.”

 

Sideswipe lit up like a small sun. “Really? Oh wow, that’s a great idea! Thanks, Prowl, seriously.”

Prowl only smiled and moved on, inwardly delighted at the smile on Sideswipe’s face.

A respectable distance away from Sideswipe’s sculptures - good thing, given the dangers of splashing water and wild flinging of projectiles - Prowl found the star attraction of this cycle’s Trek of the Awoken. “You’re looking remarkably dry, Prime,” he commented.

Optimus, sitting pretty in the Dunk the Officer booth, sighed in entirely manufactured disappointment. “Yes, clearly my army is a bit deficient in the aiming department. I’ll have to send the lot of them back to basic training.”

Prowl hid a smile. “How unfortunate. Who will eat the leftover goodies if the army is stuck in Basic?”

“I’m sure I have no idea.” Optimus lost his ‘regretful’ air and chuckled. “How have you been doing, Prowl? I haven’t seen much of you.”

“I’ve been busy,” Prowl admitted. “Some clients take more time than others, but I’m trying to make sure everyone who wants my attention has it at some point tonight.”

“As am I.” Optimus nodded to him.

“You are supposed to be enjoying yourself, Prime,” Prowl scolded gently. “Even if it involves getting dunked, I suppose. Speaking of, I see your next client coming.”

Optimus looked where Prowl indicated; his shoulders visibly dropped. “...ah. I won’t be dry much longer.”

Bluestreak was shined and painted up courtesy of Sunstreaker, and looked as happy and confident as either officer had ever seen him. He was listening to Rewind’s explanation of the game, but refused all but one ball to throw when he could have had three.

“I don’t need more than one,” he boasted, and Optimus tried not to facepalm.

“Younglings,” he muttered in Prowl’s direction. “Very well, Bluestreak,” he called, “let’s see if you can do any better than the rest of the Autobots.”

Bluestreak eyed the gently-rocking target on its pivot, and smiled slightly. Before Optimus could trash-talk again Bluestreak threw in a motion so fast it was barely visible.

_Thunk - SPLOOSH._

Prowl sputtered his vents at the backwash, shaking the water off. “Well done,” he admitted.

Optimus came out of the pool laughing. “Yes, well done. Rewind, I believe Bluestreak’s earned a prize.”

“And you’ve earned a towel,” Rewind pointed out cheerily, but he came forward to hand Bluestreak his car-wash tickets.

“Congratulations,” Prowl smiled, and his spark warmed at the delighted beam he received in turn.

“Thanks Prowl! Check it out, I didn’t even think there’d be an actual prize. This is great, Rewind, thanks! Maybe I’ll ask if the twins want to come with me when we get some time off...”

“You’re welcome,” Rewind chirped, optics brightening fondly at the gunner. “You’re the first one to dunk Optimus, hence the tickets.”

“Ohhh. So who got Ironhide and Ratchet? Oh, wait, Ironhide hasn’t had a turn yet, nevermind. Who got Ratchet?”

Rewind’s amusement turned decidedly wicked. “Would you believe, First Aid?”

*

“Hey, check it out.” Springer nudged Hot Rod’s shoulder, nodding to something across the room. Arcee was already turning to look, Hot Rod following her gaze-

“Oh,” he said in surprise. “I thought Prowl was supposed to stay in the tent.”

“Maybe he’s taking a break?” 

Looking decidedly devious, Springer gave Hot Rod a nudge. “Now’s your chance, short stack. Why don’t you go ask him?”

Hot Rod shoved at his arm. “Don’t be dumb. If he’s on a break, he’s on a break.”

Arcee nodded. “Let him enjoy the party. He’s been cooped up in that tent all night.”

“Way I hear, the mech wouldn’t know a party if it bit him,” Springer pointed out, and sputtered when Hot Rod punched him in the arm. “Hey! Just saying. Anyway, you could at least get your pede in the door for when he goes back to doing the talking-to-sparks thing. Er, pede in the tent flap, anyway.”

Huffing, Hot Rod snagged another of Jazz’s goodies from the table. He was developing an addiction to the things; leaving them behind when they went back to Cybertron would be hard. “What for? Kup’s the only one I can think of who’d bother to haunt me, and he’s still alive and kicking.” He nodded to where Kup was trying to dunk the Prime, and failing from laughing too hard at Optimus’s expert taunting.

“What’ve you got to lose?” Springer nudged him again. “If there’s no messages, then there’s no messages. I mean, unless you’re afraid of ghosts or something.”

“I am _not!”_

Springer’s grin widened. “Springer,” Arcee warned.

She was too late. Hot Rod, flustered, didn’t need another nudge; that expression of Springer’s was enough. He turned on his heel and stormed his way over to Prowl.

Prowl, in turn, looked rather taken aback; the expression of determined stubbornness on Hot Rod’s face and colouring his field was not something he’d been expecting with a goodie in one hand and mid-banter with Bluestreak. “...is something wrong?” he hazarded, two sets of doorwings lifting in surprise.

“Nossir! I just wanted - when you’re not on your break, I mean, and there’s probably not going to be anything anyway-”

“...ah. You wanted to ask if there were any sparks waiting to pass on messages?” Prowl’s confusion lifted at that, Bluestreak giving the youngling a relieved grin.

“Eesh, that’s a relief,” he said cheerily. “The way you came over here was like ‘oh no, did something happen, if there’s Decepticons then someone’s really gonna get it ‘cause, well, goodies and other stuff as well this time..’”

Hot Rod was already shaking his head, the almost angry colour of his field fading into something more chagrined. “No way, nothing like that! ...sorry. I just wanted to ask.”

“No need to be sorry,” Prowl told him with a faint smile, tucking the untouched goodie into his subspace for later. “I was going to head back to my post soon enough.” He tilted his head as though he were looking at someone just behind Hot Rod’s shoulder, and the younger mech almost turned to look himself. Prowl’s optic ridges rose slightly, then he glanced back at Hot Rod.

“There is someone for you,” he said gravely. “Would you like to take this back to the - tent, for some privacy?”

Hot Rod blinked. “.....huh?”

“To hear the message,” Prowl clarified, seemingly oblivious to Hot Rod’s sudden mental lockdown. “It can be overwhelming, depending on the message’s contents and who is delivering it, and most find it easier to have somewhere quieter and more private to listen.”

“I -” Hot Rod turned again, quickly, as if he could catch a glimpse of his ghostly visitor with sufficient speed. “...okay,” he conceded in a smaller voice. “Tent. Whenever you’re done with your break.”

“Five minutes - have you received the Earth time program?” Prowl asked, and Hot Rod nodded. “Good. Five minutes, then meet me at the tent?”

“Sure.” Hot Rod summoned up a smile, stubborn as ever, and retreated back to the goodie table. Prowl shook his head and fielded Bluestreak’s worried look with a calm one of his own.

“Now you’ve got me curious,” he overheard Springer protest from the goodie table.

“Springer, knock it off. If he wants to tell you he will.” Arcee, doing her best to ride herd on the bigger and older soldier.

Hot Rod just made a face at Springer and went back to his goodie.

“He, uh. He looked pretty worried.”

Prowl hummed faintly, distracted by the form the spark drifting near Hot Rod had taken; only when Bluestreak sidled a little closer did he think to glance away and give the other Praxian a less vague smile. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s young - and from what Kup had already said and the questions they were asking, I don’t think any of Ultra Magnus’ team aside from Kup and Magnus themselves had ever seen a Trek or a seer before.”

Bluestreak only looked more concerned. “Well, yeah, but that’s why I’m worried - maybe I’ll go tell him it’s nothing to worry about. ...um.”

The brief guilty look he shot Prowl made the elder mech’s spark ache and he hugged Bluestreak close, mindful of his decorations. “I understand why you might not feel comfortable doing it yourself,” he said gently, and Bluestreak’s doorwings fluttered with relief and chagrin. “That doesn’t make you any less qualified to reassure Hot Rod, quite the opposite. He can still change his mind - though you’re right, I doubt he would. Springer goading him would be too much for his pride. ...maybe I should separate those two on missions.”

“Maybe? But that sounds like you’re thinking long-term about all of this, and _that_ is work and working is banned tonight.” Bluestreak waggled a finger sternly, and Prowl chuckled. “Don’t make me tell Jazz.”

“Mercy, I surrender; I’ll stop thinking entirely.” Prowl smiled, blank optics crinkling affectionately, and Bluestreak grinned.

“Much better! Come on, I want another one of Jazz’s spirals before you have to go back in that tent and Rewind might have more statistics for who’s been actually hitting the dunk tank targets and-”

Chattering happily once more, Bluestreak towed Prowl back towards the dunk tank - and they both missed the anxious glance Hot Rod shot their way.


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and concludes, with a surprise guest. Starscream's day gets better; Megatron's does not.

Hot Rod sidled into Prowl’s tent right on time - nervousness aside, he wasn’t about to back down from a challenge, especially one issued by Springer. He hovered just inside the tent flap, fidgeting, until Prowl beckoned. “Come in, Hot Rod.”

As Hot Rod approached, his ghostly visitor paced after him. It was a Praxian, Prowl noted, looking as nervous as Roddy. As Hot Rod sat down the ghost gave Prowl an anxious smile and said, _I hardly know where to begin._

Prowl nodded to him in acknowledgement as Hot Rod blurted out, “I’ve never done this before, is there something I should be doing?”

“You’re here and willing to listen. That is all that is required.” Prowl lifted his optics to Hot Rod’s visitor. “Now, what do you have to say?”

Hot Rod frowned in confusion, glanced around to see who Prowl was talking to - but of course he couldn’t see the visitor or hear him as he said, _My name is Serif. I am his co-creator._

Prowl’s optics reset in surprise - the average Autobot had a Vector Sigma spark, given how rare carrier-sparks were even before the war had begun, but glancing between the two anxious faces in front of him...there was a resonance between them, a similarity in spark and frame now he knew what he was looking for.

 _He won’t know me,_ Serif continued, slim fingers knotting together. _His carrier... He wanted someone to help create a little one, for him to raise alone. We never planned for me to be a big part of his life. I just wanted...I wanted to make sure he was all right and looked after. Could you tell him that?_

“Of course,” Prowl murmured, optics soft and nodding to Serif as the other Praxian’s doorwings drooped in relief. “Will you stay in case he has questions?”

 _I would have even if he didn’t,_ Serif said, glancing sideways to Hot Rod as the youngling began to squirm.

“Thank you.” Turning to Hot Rod, the younger mech freezing in place as Prowl’s gaze returned to him, Prowl gave him a small, reassuring smile. “Don’t worry,” he said as soothingly as he could manage. “Your visitor is your co-creator - he wanted to make sure you were all right and looked after-”

Prowl had been prepared for questions, potentially tears - he wasn’t quite expecting Hot Rod to sputter. “I don’t - I don’t _have_ creators,” the youngling protested hotly. “I just got thrown away somewhere. Why is he - why now?”

Prowl glanced up to Serif, who was actually wringing his hands in anxiety. _I don’t know what happened,_ he confessed. _I died in the bombardments just after he was decanted. But I can’t imagine Nightlight just throwing him away. He seemed like such a caring spark, and he wanted a sparkling more than anything in the world. Oh - please tell him I’m sorry!_

Prowl repeated Serif’s words in a much calmer tone, and it worked - Hot Rod settled again, though his hands flexed restlessly against the table. Clearly this was hitting a raw sensor. “You are free to quit at any time,” Prowl reminded him, because he looked like he needed to hear it. “It’s your choice, Hot Rod.”

Hot Rod rocked a little bit, optics dim. “I’ll stay. ...what does he look like? Can you see him, I mean?”

“He looks like a Praxian,” Prowl answered, and Hot Rod’s optics flickered. “Ah - he’s confirming this. A Praxian from the architectural guild, where he worked as a record keeper.”

 _I couldn’t imagine becoming a caretaker,_ Serif said sadly as Hot Rod digested this information. _But I liked the idea of sparking a little one. So I put my name in a tri-state database. I don’t know what made his carrier choose me - I was a record keeper because I was a bit of a failure as a designer. ...anyway, Nightlight did choose me, and he treated me well for the time we were together and promised to keep me updated now and then, but he never got the chance._

“What was my carrier like?” Hot Rod asked, quiet and careful, clearly over his initial anger enough to listen to the answer.

_Oh, he was impressive. A member of the Emirate enclave in Vos._

“Oh. Huh. ….wait. My carrier was a _Seeker?”_

 _He was not!_ Serif cried before Prowl could react. _Seekers are hunters, fighters - he just wanted to raise a little one away from politics! He said he’d love the sparkling whether it was a grounder or a flier and I believed him, or I wouldn’t have agreed to create in the first place!_

“He’s young,” Prowl soothed. “He only knows Vosians in war, and the war frames who survived at that.” Turning to Hot Rod, his voice just as gentle, he repeated the message with an addition of his own - “Before the war, only Vosians who were in their military or who worked as deep space explorers and required warframe modifications were known as Seekers. There were many civilian frametypes in Vos, but only the warframes in the Decepticon ranks survived.”

 _Night isn’t in the Well,_ Serif said softly as Hot Rod simmered in his seat. _I don’t know what happened to him, but he’s alive or in stasis somewhere. ...he might not want to hear that._

Prowl didn’t have the opportunity to pass that on right away regardless.

“So - if my carrier wanted me so much, how come he isn’t here to see me too? He - I mean - if Serif never even met me and _he’s_ here, why isn’t my carrier?” Hot Rod shrunk into himself, looking like he was oscillating between being angry and increasingly upset.

“Serif says Nightlight isn’t in the Well,” Prowl said as gently as he could; Hot Rod’s optics shot wide open, a bright electric blue. “He may be in stasis somewhere on Cybertron, but he is alive - Serif doesn’t know where or what happened to him.”

“Alive,” Hot Rod echoed, rocking forward over the table. “I have a carrier who’s alive somewhere.”

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Prowl offered. “If you need a break…”

“No,” Hot Rod said, a little too sharply for a scout to an officer, but Prowl wasn’t acting as an officer at the moment, so he let it pass. Hot Rod came to regret the snap on his own anyway, averting his gaze and squirming uncomfortably. “I mean,” he said, “if he - Serif has anything else to say, I could - could still listen. I want to know more.”

 _Brave spark,_ Serif sighed, and made as if to touch Hot Rod’s shoulder, hovering in indecision at the last second. _I’m so proud of you, you know. And so grateful to the ones who’ve looked after you. I just wish you wouldn’t have had to fight._

“I don’t mind being a soldier,” Hot Rod said, tilting his head back and looking - nowhere near Serif, really, but it was a kind effort. “I want to help - to protect people. As an Autobot, I can do that.” He shrugged carefully, one hand rubbing over the forearm guns on his opposite wrist. “I guess my carrier wouldn’t approve, maybe.”

 _I can’t imagine such a thing._ Finally, Serif dared to touch Hot Rod’s shoulder; the young fighter shivered faintly. _If he is the mech I think he is, he will be nothing but proud of you._

Hot Rod’s vents whirred quietly when Prowl relayed that part of the message; he glanced around again, then paused and looked back at Prowl instead.

“Um - where is he? Serif, I mean, where’s he standing? ...please.”

“Just here,” Prowl murmured, taking one step around his repurposed desk, then another; he reached out as though to rest a hand on Serif’s back as the visiting spark gave him a quizzical look, and the movement of Prowl’s robes and the painted markings gave just enough plausible deniability...

Letting out a startled cry, Hot Rod lunged out of his seat as a shadow rippled in the air; the outline of a Praxian hung there, optics briefly bright blue and as surprised as Hot Rod, the filmy white of Prowl’s robes reflecting a faint blush of gold and orange paint.

 _...oh,_ Serif said. Hot Rod clutched at his chestplate, optics bright as stars as he beheld the faint projection of his - _his sparker_ on Prowl’s robes.

“I wasn’t sure if this would work,” Prowl admitted, as Serif stared at Hot Rod’s face and tried to smile. “It seems you have a touch of sensitivity to you, Hot Rod.”

“I.” Hot Rod cleared his vocalizer. “Um. ...sorry.”

 _Please don’t apologize._ Serif reached out to him, even knowing the two of them could never touch on this side of the Veil. _I’m so glad I got to see you, Hot Rod - sweetspark._

“You have my crest,” Hot Rod said wonderingly.

Serif waved a hand over his own chest. _And some of your colors. Though you wear them better than I ever did._

“No I don’t,” Hot Rod grinned. “You wear them just fine that I can see.” A droplet of optic cleanser rolled down his cheek and his expression changed to one of shock. He wiped at it and stared at his palm; another droplet quivered at his other optic, ready to fall.

 _A tear,_ Serif wondered. _A tear for me._

He reached out, hesitant as ever, but this time dared to touch, his fingertips tracing the line of Hot Rod’s cheek. “...sparker,” Hot Rod whispered as the second tear fell.

 _Oh, sweetspark,_ Serif murmured softly, insubstantial hands reaching up to cradle Hot Rod’s cheek and stroke his helm. _I wish I could hold you. ...I know I can’t make it all right._

“No,” Hot Rod insisted even as his voice began to wobble. “This is - this is more all right than it was, I didn’t even know - I didn’t know you wanted me. ...either of you wanted me. And I know y-you’re okay, sort of - I mean-”

 _I am,_ came the reply, Serif’s arms settling over Hot Rod’s shoulders like a winter breeze. _It doesn’t hurt in the Well, just the opposite. Dying only hurts while it’s happening, and that isn’t long. ...and I got to see you. I’m so glad you’re all right._

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay, I just...” Hot Rod gave up on words and did his level best to cling to Serif, his hands curling around the faint wash of colours.

 _The Trek only lasts so long,_ Serif murmured against Hot Rod’s audial, _but one thing I can do for you is try to find your carrier. If I don’t make it back before the Trek ends this time around, I promise I’ll find the nearest seer to you and tell you on the next. I know it would have split his spark losing you, however it happened._

Hot Rod scrubbed at his face and nodded bravely. “Thank - thank you,” he managed. “A-and thank you for coming to see me.”

 _I love you, Hot Rod. Please be well._ Serif’s helm lowered, touched Hot Rod’s, and Hot Rod sucked in a soft gasp through his vents as Serif faded.

“He’s still here,” Prowl assured him. “He just needs to rest. It might help if you visited the offering pavilion sometime tonight.”

Hot Rod nodded faintly. “I - I’ve never needed to. I’ve never had reason to before.”

“You will collect reasons to,” Prowl observed sadly, “if you remain a soldier long enough. That is the nature of war, I’m afraid.”

Hot Rod reached out with a shaking hand, found the chair he’d vacated before, and slowly sat down in it. “I… if there hadn’t been a war, I would have grown up in Vos. I’m a Vosian by creation.” Prowl got the impression he was voicing it aloud to see how it sounded, for he winced a moment later. “Um - I know these sessions are probably confidential anyway...”

“They are,” Prowl confirmed.

Hot Rod nodded. “...but, don’t tell anyone about the Vosian thing, please? I mean,” he added, seeing Prowl’s frown, “no disrespect to my carrier or anything, but Springer won’t ever let me hear the end of it.”

...ah. Hot Rod had a point. “Your secret is safe with me,” Prowl nodded, and was relieved when Hot Rod smiled.

*

“...so? So? Who was it? What’d they say?” Springer’s voice was slightly muffled by the tarpaulin, but the words were clearly audible.

“Not telling,” Hot Rod singsonged.

“Aaaaagh, come on! I’m dying to know!”

“Sounds like something you should see a medic about.”

“I’ll tickle you if you don’t spill.”

“If you can catch me, slowaft.”

Prowl smiled into his robes. Clearly Hot Rod was as emotionally resilient as anyone could want, and was vastly enjoying having this advantage over Springer.

Now, there was one more thing left outstanding… scaring Sideswipe silly.

*

Carly arrived back at the Ark much later than planned - still in plenty of time to witness the grand dunking of Ironhide, much to his chagrin. 

“Now that ain’t fair,” he complained as Sideswipe helped haul him out of the tank. “If’n you got here two clicks sooner, he’da been distracted!”

“Sorry Ironhide,” Carly laughed, weaving her way carefully through the collection of pedes over to him. “What can I say - you’ve never had to convince your parents that yeah, you really do have a party to go to, pregnant or not!” Sideswipe was mindful enough in his victory to wait until Ironhide had scooped Carly up before accepting his car wash tickets and doing a war dance, and that only made her laugh harder. “Don’t tell me this is what it’s been like all night! I really should have gotten here sooner, then maybe Baby here would make up its mind about coming out already.”

Ironhide squinted at her, an instinctive scan flickering over her small form. “Pretty much,” he confessed. “Wish ya could’ve been here fer the whole thing, but I get this was all planned out in advance.”

“The one I really feel sorry for is Chip. Tenure, a lecture tour and all that fuss and attention, and he’d much rather be here watching Prowl in makeup.”

“Can’t blame him,” Ironhide drawled, which had the added benefit of making his human friend laugh. “So? How’s your family?”

“Running around like headless chickens,” Carly sighed, “as expected. You’d think this is their first grandchild the way they’re carrying on.”

“Ain’t your sister got two lilbits?”

Carly nodded. “You’ll probably meet them once the baby’s born. Fair warning, the younger of the two is probably going to explode meeting you. She’s six and Autobots are right up there with Disney Princesses in her mind.” She grinned, completely shameless and undenying of the fact that she too was a great big fangirl where the Autobots were concerned.

Ironhide chuckled. “What, just the one?”

“The older girl is nine going on forty. Far too cool for _giant robots from outer space.”_ Carly did a fair impression of a worldly preteen, rolling her eyes and flipping her hair behind her shoulder.

This time it was Ironhide’s turn to laugh. “I’m sure we can win her over. We’ll just sic Jazz on ‘er. Ah, speak of the Unmaker.” He strode over to Jazz, who was currently greeting a painted-up Prowl just emerging from - Carly squinted.

“Is that a tent?” she asked.

Ironhide chuckled. “Sideswipe’s idea, but it’s worked out pretty good, despite that. Hey, you two - look who’s here.”

Prowl glanced over from Jazz’s enthusiastic wraparound hug and gave her a smile, and Carly blinked. “...are your optics a different colour?” she asked, leaning forward as best she could in Ironhide’s hands. “Spike sent me pictures, but there weren’t all that many of you.”

“He’s th’ seer t’night,” Jazz said cheerily. “Means he gets ta dress up all pretty; optics are just part’o the package.”

Prowl chuckled and shook his head as Ironhide huffed. “While that’s not quite how I would have put it, Jazz is right in the essentials,” he replied drily.

“‘Cause Jazz is an irreverent glitch,” Ironhide pointed out, and Carly stifled a snicker.

“Yeah, but we _knew_ that,” she said innocently, and grinned at Jazz’s splorfling. “So, you guys all having fun? ...and has anybody seen Spike? I want more than a burble of how cool this all is before I’m done with him.”

“A ‘burble?’ “ Jazz splorfled. “That’s adorable. Spike’s unusually easy t’ find tonight, just look for the camera followin’ Roller. Lessee…” He scanned the crowd of partygoers. “There he is - up on the dais with lil’ Roddy there.”

Carly looked. Spike was nodding thoughtfully as one of the newcomers from Cybertron - Roddy, apparently - explained something with animated hand gestures. Behind him was Roller, a camera affixed to his back watching them both enquiringly. “Okay, that _is_ adorable,” she admitted with a grin. “I’ll go say hello. See you in a bit, you three?”

Ironhide took that as an order and set Carly down gently - no one even thought of suggesting that Carly be carried across the festival grounds instead. Even - perhaps especially - eight months pregnant, Carly was a powerful personality in her own right. “I gotta get back to the dunkin’ booth anyhow,” Ironhide allowed. “I’ll catch y’all later.”

Prowl nodded. “I’ll follow you,” he added to Carly. “I haven’t been to visit the dais yet.” He didn’t miss the questioning look Jazz shot him, but his partner didn’t engage his comm to ask whatever he was wondering about. They took their time wandering over to the dais, Carly asking questions and pausing to cheer when Bumblebee took a swing at Brawn’s test of strength game - ‘Bee lit up at the sight of her and came over as soon as he’d handed the hammer back to Brawn.

“Hi Carly! Oh wow, this is great - I was kind of worried you wouldn’t make it before the Trek was over.”

“Aww, ‘Bee.” Carly reached up for a hug, and Bumblebee knelt carefully in front of her to nestle close. “It’s good to be home. Spike sent me pictures for the first half of things, but it’s good to see you guys all having fun at once for a change!”

“Heh. Oh, I don’t know, you missed the best part - did Spike tell you about the Sparkeater thing~?”

Carly’s eyes lit up, and Spike’s first hint that his wife had arrived was her laughter ringing out over Roddy’s gesticulating.

“Carly! ...’scuse me for one second, Hot Rod, I’ll be right back- Roller, hold still for now, huh?”

Hot Rod watched in bemusement as Spike vaulted down from the dais, but his optics brightened at the sight of what he presumed was another human.

“Is Carly a title or a name?” he murmured to Prowl, the older mech bypassing the enthusiastic reunion to meet him by the offering table.

Prowl’s smile confused him, but there was a great well of affection in white optics as Prowl replied - “When you’ve been here a little longer, Hot Rod, you’ll understand that it’s both.”

Spike and Carly embraced, Spike’s body canted slightly to the side to accommodate her ripe abdomen. “You’ve been having all the fun,” Carly accused playfully, stealing a kiss.

“Hey, I’ve been working,” Spike protested, and stole it back. “...but, yeah, I’ve probably been having more fun than you, aside from when Sideswipe tried to give me a heart attack.”

“Oh, yeah. The ‘sparkeater thing,’ ‘Bee called it?”

Spike groaned. “Bumblebee, you of all people?” he complained. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

“To be fair, neither is Sideswipe,” Prowl pointed out mildly, and Jazz snickered beside him.

“Well, I guess that’s something.” Spike huffed, leading Carly back over to them with an arm over her shoulders. “I still think ‘Slayer of Sparkeaters’ should be yours, you know. You actually killed a real one.”

Carly peered between Spike and Prowl, with a glance at a suspiciously amused Jazz for good measure. “There is a story here,” she accused. “There is a story here and you _will_ spill.”

On Prowl’s other side, Hot Rod looked impressed as Prowl nodded acquiescence. “Very well. I’ll ask you to turn your camera off first, Spike; in the interests of security.”

“Sure.” Spike climbed fearlessly over Hot Rod’s knee - Hot Rod held carefully still for him, and Prowl and Jazz exchanged approving pings on how quickly the young racer had adapted to human presence - and turned the camera off. “Okay, ready,” he said, giving Roller an approving pat. “I haven’t actually heard the whole story myself.”

“I’ll do my best to do it justice, then, but it really wasn’t as dramatic as it may sound,” Prowl demurred; Jazz promptly made a rude noise and poked his side through the seer’s robes.

“That’s a whole load of slag, and if you don’t tell it right _I_ will.”

Hot Rod’s optics were wide and round, and he promptly sat down on the edge of the dais next to Spike and Carly. Bumblebee just chuckled and stepped past them. “Well, while you’re storytelling, I’m gonna get my offerings in before Optimus winds the official part of the Trek up. Don’t wait up.”

Prowl nodded, and as Bumblebee made his way over to the bowls of energon he began the story from sending Starscream aft over teakettle, arriving on Cybertron - and Jazz’s decision to blow up the facilities on the other side of the space bridge compound.

“Because we mighta needed a distraction!” the saboteur protested, but both humans and Hot Rod made dismissive noises at him.

“Moving swiftly on,” Prowl drawled, and sketched out the meeting with Elita-One and the femmes; Wheeljack’s hurried construction efforts and the placing of the traps; his own descent into the ruined levels of Cybertron, and Jazz sneaking in after him.

“Totally worth it,” Jazz stage-whispered, and Hot Rod didn’t quite stifle a grin in time.

“So you both saw the sparkeater?” he asked, wiggling ever so slightly in place. Prowl nodded gravely, and some of the excitement left Hot Rod’s expression.

“And the sparks it had already eaten. Luckily it pinned me on my back and I was able to pull out my rifle; I shot it in the mouth and that both offlined it and caused the containment tank to fail. I rejoined the others and checked the stasis pods of the mechs who had been attacked, and thankfully their sparks were already finding their way back to their frames.”

Carly opened her mouth; “I’m sorry, but the physics of sparks isn’t really my area of expertise,” Prowl pre-empted. “You’d be better off asking Perceptor about it.”

“Oh, that wasn’t-” Strangely, Carly looked uncharacteristically flustered. “Well, that was going to be my second question.”

“What was your first?” Prowl asked politely.

“Um. More of a statement.” Carly took a breath. “I’m pretty sure my water just broke.”

Spike looked like he’d just swallowed his tongue; the other Autobots lapsed into shocked, indecisive silence. Only Hot Rod was unaffected. “How can water break?” he asked. “Oh - is this a human thing? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“I’ll explain later,” Carly promised, as Prowl dimmed his optics to indicate he was on the comm. _//Sideswipe, report to the dais.//_

_//Can it wait? I’m playing Whack-a-Thing-//_

_//I’m afraid it cannot. Carly is about to give birth, and you are going to transport her to the hospital.//_ A pause to let that sink in. _//I’d advise you to hurry, or she may decant her offspring right in your cab.//_

An indignant shriek of “WHAT!?” worthy of Tracks, followed by a thud. Prowl mentally checked off the last item on tonight’s to-do list.

“I’ll get Ratchet,” he told them politely, and strode off.

*

Daniel Christopher Witwicky was born in the Ark’s medbay at the close of the Trek of the Awoken. His mother was remarkably calm about it, given that the tiny human was two weeks earlier than expected; his father couldn’t stop smiling, hair standing on end and alternating between bursts of rapid-fire enthusiasm and wordless beaming. 

Optimus wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop staring at the red squirming bundle. He didn’t think First Aid would manage it either, for all that Ratchet had already moved on to updating their medical records to include Daniel’s name and status; it was also entirely possible that Bumblebee had welded himself to the side of the medbay berth. The Autobots outside had been celebrating - loudly, in the rooms used for the Trek, and very very quietly just outside the medbay if they were hoping to catch a glimpse of the new arrival first. Hot Rod had been amongst those waiting, asking questions of anyone who had held still for long enough, and Optimus should probably make sure that he hadn’t got his Introduction to Human Reproduction from someone like Skydive...

Sideswipe, on the other hand, was still sulking.

“Can’t believe he did that,” he was muttering as Optimus approached.

“Who?” Optimus sat down beside him, and Sideswipe sighed and flopped against his shoulder.

“Get this. _Prowl_ pranked _me.”_

With an effort, Optimus managed not to laugh. Sideswipe sensed something in his silence, though, and turned his head to glare at his leader. “That’s not even a surprise to you, is it?”

“I have known Prowl longer than you have,” Optimus pointed out. Sideswipe grunted and looked down again. “Is it really so terrible? You’re not the one still scrubbing glitter out of his joints.”

Sideswipe splorfled unwillingly. “No, I guess not. I just made a bet with him about it and now I have to be on my best behavior for a month.”

“Oh,” Optimus murmured, as flat as Prowl would have, “how ever will you cope.”

“By watching you go all gooshy over Spike and Carly’s little squeaker, that’s how.”

Optimus turned his head to meet Sideswipe’s grin. “I beg your pardon.”

“You totally are, big guy. Don’t even try to deny it.”

 _“Sideswipe,”_ Optimus mock-growled.

Sideswipe’s expression turned thoughtful. “Hey, you think Carly’ll let you hold the bit?”

Optimus fell silent as he pictured it: the tiny, helpless little human a spot of warmth in his palm, all little and sweet…

“...uh-huh,” Sideswipe grinned, and Optimus sputtered through his vents.

****

Starscream fixed the monitor with a piercing, somewhat unfocused glare.

“Nnnno,” he slurred decisively. “If Megatron wans me back on Earth, he c’n come _get_ me.” 

On the other end of the connection, Thundercracker gave him a look as though his wingmate was the biggest source of headaches since Skywarp had onlined. “Look, Screamer, you can’t just wander off _again-”_

“Ah’ve been run over by Autobots,” Starscream informed him. “Nuh’ once. Nuh’ twice. THREE friggin’ times. Amnot gonna. Iff Megatron wans m’back, he c’n bring his _own_ drink.”

Thundercracker stared. “...how many have you _had?”_

“Not enough!” Starscream crowed, and cut the connection - on the third try - with the distinct air of someone who had comprehensively won the argument. Thundercracker made an impressive attempt at sinking into his own cockpit, then turned hesitantly around on the stool; Megatron’s expression was less ‘thunderous’ and more ‘incoming hurricane’.

“He, uh.” Thundercracker reset his vocaliser and wished it helped. “He’s on Cybertron. Sir.”

“I HEARD.”


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long-awaited meeting.

***  
_16.6 Earth years later_  
***

“Hey, Danny, happy Cybertronian birthday.”

Daniel Witwicky chuckled and hopped up to claim Rodimus Prime’s lap as he sat down. “Thanks. Have you been to see Prowl yet?”

“I haven’t seen him today.” Rodimus let his hands settle around his companion, scanning the Trek of the Awoken crowd in Iacon as if searching again for the luminous figure of Prowl. Since his frame’s destruction, Prowl was visible to no one but the Prime, save for on the Trek of the Homeless, and he spent that night with Jazz.

Danny wriggled uncomfortably, and Rodimus glanced down. “Something on your mind?”

“Well, no…” Danny gripped Rodimus’s fingers. “Just wondering if you were gonna get a message from Optimus tonight, and what he’d say.”

“I don’t need a seer or a psychopomp for that.” Rodimus tapped his own chest gently. “Optimus and the other Primes are doing some wandering around of their own - enjoying the party, and all.” That got a smile from Danny, whose last Trek had been when he was eight years old and Optimus Prime still lived. “He’ll be back soon, I’ll bet, and you can say hi to him then, all right?”

“All right.” Danny glanced around. There were multiple tents set up all over the vast central square of Iacon, serving the growing population seeking contact with dead loved ones much as the seer-priests had before the war, but the tents themselves had their origins on Earth. Seeing them felt like home to him, though they probably looked strange to the Cybertronians who’d never seen Earth.

“Hey,” he said, something occurring to him. “What about Serif? Have you talked to him yet?”

Rodimus shifted slightly, optics scanning the crowd again. “...I haven’t seen him,” he confessed, quiet disappointment in his tone just for Danny to hear. “He wasn’t at the last Trek, either.”

“Maybe it’s taking him longer than he thought to find your carrier,” Danny suggested practically, squeezing Rodimus’ fingers as best he could. “He promised, right?”

“Yeah, he did, but...” Broad shoulders drooped, then shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance.

“So he _will._ He’s in the Well, it’s not like he’s got much else to do. Right?”

Rodimus snorted. “Don’t let Prowl hear you say that.” He looked more cheerful than he had before, though, and Danny counted it as a victory.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he mused. “Maybe everyone needs some more to do around here. We could bring in the Dunk a Prime tank, see what Cybertron makes of a soggy Roddy...” Rodimus’ vents wheezed in surprised laughter and Danny grinned. “I bet Grapple could build a tank big enough for Magnus to take a turn~ And Kup got out of it the last couple of times, riiiight?”

“Right!” Rodimus hooted, listing to one side as giggles got the better of him.

“Heck, maybe we could sell tickets.”

“Nonsense. Dunking the Prime is the right of all sentient beings!” Rodimus struck a pose, fists on hips, and this time it was Danny’s turn to fall over giggling. “...oh. Sorry, sir.”

Danny glanced up. Rodimus was addressing a patch of seemingly empty air, his optics slightly unfocused. As the human Autobot watched, fascinated, Rodimus hunched his shoulders sheepishly and chuckled. “He’s laughing at me,” he informed Danny, then added, “Oh, you totally are, don’t deny it.”

“Hi Optimus,” Danny offered, a little awkwardly.

Rodimus listened carefully to the reply. “He says hello,” he reported, “and thank you for looking after his successor. You’ve grown so much, and you make the Autobots proud.” As Danny swallowed down the lump in his throat, Rodimus grinned. “Aaaand now he’s reminiscing. He remembers when you were _thiiiiis_ big.” He held his fingertips a tiny bit apart, just about the length of a newborn human.

“Everybody remembers when I was thiiiis big,” Danny countered, rolling his eyes fondly. “Mom and Dad must have passed me around like a party favor.” He subsided when he realized Rodimus wasn’t listening anymore.

“Oh - um.” Rodimus stood up suddenly, scooping Danny up with him. “Sorry,” he blurted, flustered, setting his friend back down again. “I have to go. Optimus says I have a message from Serif.”

“Huh? Well - sure, but why can’t he give it himself?”

Danny had to run after Rodimus to finish his question; the other Autobot was already darting through the crowds. He didn’t have the time to pause, but to Danny’s confusion Rodimus was heading to the comms building instead of one of the purple-blue tents.

*

By the time Danny had scrambled into the comms building, Rodimus had had to slow down purely thanks to the amount of people recognising him and wanting to say hi, hug him or otherwise impede his progress; they burst into the room one after the other, and Blaster turned in his chair to stare.

“How’d you even-?” he began, but Rodimus was already scanning the room for Serif’s spark-form. 

“Yeah, hi Blaster,” he said with a distracted wave. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen a Praxian spark wandering around here...”

“Uh, Prime?”

That made Rodimus pause, and Danny’s attention flicked to the active comm screen.

“You might wanna take a minute for this,” Blaster said, and gestured to the screen; a Vosian with white plating and deep blue optics looked back at him, and behind the flier - invisible to Danny and Blaster both - drifted Serif, exhausted but content.

Rodimus smiled. “Nightlight, I presume,” he said, and saw the Vosian’s optics widen in shock, even as Serif’s content smile deepened.


End file.
